


Dangerous Disadvantages

by azriona



Series: Hearts [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Angst, BAMF John, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, Parenthood, Sequel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-10 02:47:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 53,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/780886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s five months after John Watson woke from his coma to find his bond mate alive and back in his life.  Things are finally starting to get back to…well, something approximating normal. Normal for them, anyway. But Sherlock’s abrupt return meant some things were left unfinished, and some truths were never quite told.  </p><p>Truth is always powerful.  In the wrong hands, truth can be downright dangerous.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A bit more than a day late, but hopefully with the full complement of dollars. Be warned that if you thought Heart1 was angsty…oh dear. (And please remember I’m a romantic at heart.) Multitudes of thanks to the always awesome earlgreytea68, who beta’ed, and the extremely brave kizzia, who Brit-picked and whacked me over the head as necessary.
> 
> The book John reads to Emily is [Giraffes Can’t Dance](http://www.amazon.com/Giraffes-Cant-Dance-Giles-Andreae/dp/0439287197/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1367174238&sr=1-1&keywords=giraffes+can%27t+dance) by Giles Andreae and Guy Parker-Rees. My son very highly recommends it.

Mycroft Holmes did not show emotion easily, particularly while working. The very nature of his job required a cool head and often unemotional dedication, and while for most people a lack of emotion exemplified a lack of empathy, Mycroft had always had something of a knack for instilling a sense of reassurance in those who needed it. He was unthreatening, quiet, calming…dependable. 

Mycroft disliked the term "dependable", but in truth, he had to admit that it was what he had become. Indispensible as well, which was gratifying, though perhaps not the wisest of courses, since it meant there were those who refused to believe anyone else could do his job. Mycroft knew this was not entirely true, but only felt the need to reflect on that truth in the wee hours of the morning when he hadn't slept in four days. 

He was drinking tea when one of his assistants entered his office with a folder clutched in his hands. 

“Whitmore, excellent, there’s a letter I need sent to Santiago by four this afternoon.” 

"Sir, there’s a file for you. From Office 216?" Whitmore, beta, newly hired, awestruck and terrified most of the time but extremely thorough and eager to please. On the whole, Mycroft liked having beta employees over alphas and omegas. There was very little chance a beta would become distracted by heats or frenzies, and oftentimes they worked twice as hard to prove themselves just as worthy. Whitmore fit this stereotype to the letter. Mycroft thought he would settle in before too much longer. 

The letter to Santiago was forgotten. Mycroft sat up a little bit straighter and reached for the folder. He could see from Whitmore's confusion and slight hesitation that he had no idea what Office 216 entailed, but Mycroft knew, and he almost dreaded reading it. 

Mycroft Holmes never showed emotion in front of his subordinates. He knew that they saw him either as a stalwart rock in the face of the oncoming storm, or as a cold-hearted bastard who cared little for anyone or anything. Beta, never feels anything, that one. It wasn’t a bad image, for his line of work, at least. 

By the time Mycroft finished reading and set his teacup down, his hand was shaking and the cup clattered noisily against the saucer. 

"Sir?" asked Whitmore, eyes on the teacup. “The letter? To Santiago?” 

"Not just now, I think. Thank you, Whitmore, that will be all," said Mycroft, his voice utterly calm and completely belying the tremor in his hand. 

"Yes, sir," said Whitmore, and shut the door behind him with a soft click. Mycroft briefly wondered if there was an office pool regarding his emotional state, and hoped Whitmore had not just lost it. 

Mycroft rested his hand on the telephone, and considered. He stared at the photographs in the folder, the coroner's report, the request for transportation services, the news clippings, and the first-hand accounts. For anyone else, it would have been enough. It would have been more than enough. 

But Mycroft wasn't anyone else. And neither was Sherlock. Or, for that matter, the man who was pictured in the photographs. 

Mycroft picked up the phone. "Clarissa. I will need to fly to Singapore. Immediately. Please make the usual arrangements." 

Mycroft closed the folder and set it aside. As easily as flipping a switch, he turned back to his laptop and continued working while he waited for Clarissa to announce it was time to leave. 

* 

The balloons did not fit through the front door of 221 Baker Street on the first attempt; they had a mind of their own, coupled with the brisk February wind which was determined to claim them. It was several minutes of wrestling before Sherlock was able to pull each one inside and shut the door. 

"Did you get them?" called John from the basement, where he was trying to set up 221C to be Party Central. Mrs Hudson was never able to keep lodgers in it for long, though Sherlock half suspected she would have ensured that it remained available specifically for Emily's birthday party. She might have denied the deception, but the landlady was in her own flat, putting the final touches on the various homemade snacks and an elaborate birthday cake. Even so, Sherlock didn’t think much of his chances had he tried to confront her. 

"Of course I did," said Sherlock as he pulled the balloons into the basement flat. " _John_. What are you doing?" 

John didn't turn around from the chair where he stood, fixing pink streamers to the wall with tape. "Decorating, of course." 

"Get down from that chair, you're going to fall," scolded Sherlock. He let go of the balloons and reached up for John's hand. John ignored it while he pressed the end of a streamer to the wall, trying to make the tape stick. 

"I'm fine, Sherlock, stop being a mother hen." 

"You’ve been having bouts of vertigo for the last week, and the doctors said—" 

"I'm a doctor myself, Sherlock, I know what I'm capable of doing." John's voice was tight and testy. 

"All evidence to the contrary." 

John hit the wall with the flat of his hand with sudden temper. "Leave it," he said shortly, and gripped the back of the chair to ease himself down. He ignored Sherlock's hand. "The streamers had to go up, I didn't know when you'd return with the balloons, and I'm fine." 

"Bollocks," said Sherlock quietly, his hand still outstretched. "Only half the lights in this room are lit, your knees were shaking as you climbed down, you can't open your left eye fully, and you ignored my assistance. You are clearly experiencing loss of vision and possibly a reduction in balance, which in your condition are generally indicative of a headache." 

"I didn't take your hand because I didn't need it," snapped John. “And my condition is very well, ta.” 

"The streamers are crooked." 

"Bloody hell," said John, and rubbed at his nose. "All right, fine, you win. I can still decorate for the party." 

"You need to lie down and stop overextending yourself." 

"Thank you, mother," snapped John, and sighed. "Sorry, I'm sorry. I didn't want a headache today, of all days..." He took Sherlock's hand and gripped it tightly. "I didn't sleep well." 

"I know," said Sherlock. He hadn’t slept at all, not really – John had been up and down most of the night, unable to sleep, unwilling to disturb Sherlock. Insomnia and vertigo weren’t that odd a combination, except for John, who apart from the accident five months ago, had rarely been sick a day in his life. 

“The accident” – a laughable term for being hit by a car and in a coma for a week, an event which had brought Sherlock home to discover his bondmate near death and the daughter he’d never known waiting for him. But they never referred to it as anything else. 

Sherlock watched as John started to pick up the plastic bags from the streamers, slowly, as if he were in pain He thought of the box of suppressants in the medicine cabinet, and how for the last day, John had been rubbing at his skin as though it itched. 

And then, sharp as a knife, he thought of John under him, head thrown back, and the rush and heavy scent and the _wanting_ as the frenzy would flood over him, the memory tinged red at the edges the way frenzy memories always were, and that’s what they _should_ have been doing, instead of hanging ridiculous pink streamers and collecting pink balloons for decoration. 

No. Sherlock had to put John's health first. John's health couldn't take a heat. John needed to rest, more than Sherlock needed John. No matter what John thought. 

"I _would_ be able to sleep, but someone isn't willing to help," said John bitterly, and Sherlock stood up. 

"I'll fix the streamer later. You should lie down." 

"The party..." 

"Isn't for an hour, and Emily won't notice a lack of streamers." 

"She notices more than you credit her for." 

"If she resents a lack of pink streamers at her third birthday party, then I have no doubt she will inform me of it. Until then, I'm not concerned. Up." 

John gripped Sherlock's arms as he stood and swayed for a moment, trying to regain his balance. "Bloody headache – clean bill of health for months, I don’t know why these hit me so hard." 

"Tenacity," said Sherlock dryly. "It is a very _you_ headache." 

John squinted at him. "I'll take that as a compliment." 

"Mrs Hudson won't mind if you rest on her sofa." 

"No – if you're going to make me sleep, I'll do it in my own bed." 

"The stairs—" 

"Sherlock," said John warningly, and Sherlock followed him up the stairs. He wondered how angry John would be if he let him sleep through the party. 

Very. It wasn't worth considering. 

They could hear the shrieks of laughter from their daughter and her nanny, Jane, from the landing, and Sherlock felt some of John's tension ease away. 

"She screamed for five minutes when I left to deal with the streamers," he said quietly. 

"She's fine now." 

John sighed. "She won't let me leave the room. I should have stayed downstairs." 

“She’s too old for this nonsense,” said Sherlock. 

“She’s three, and her life was turned upside-down five months ago,” said John testily. “She can have a little separation anxiety, it’s normal.” 

Sherlock swore to himself. "I can distract her." 

"No. It'll be fine. If you're here, maybe she'll let me sleep a little." 

Not bloody likely, thought Sherlock, but John opened the door before Sherlock could say anything. 

Emily and Jane happily played in the sitting room, an elaborate game involving a pink dolphin, a rabbit, four toy cars and Elfin presiding over it all. It took Emily a few moments, what with the laughter and her concentration on the game at hand, but as soon as her fathers stepped into the room, she spun around and her face broke into a wide smile. "Daddy!" she shrieked with glee, and ran straight to John, where she curled herself around his leg and pressed herself close. 

"Hello, poppet, did you have a good time?" said John fondly, and rested his hand on her dark curls. 

“You _left_ ,” Emily accused him, resting her chin on his thigh. 

"But I came back, just as promised, and wait until you see what your papa brought back for you." 

But Emily had no eyes for Sherlock; she clung to John. “I saw balloons. I didn’t know when you would be _back_.” 

Sherlock shrugged off his coat and tried to hide the smile. Emily’s verbal skills grew by leaps and bounds every day; John said it was normal, but he thought John placed too high a priority on _normal_. Emily was clearly exceptional. 

“I don’t want to interrupt your game with Jane.” 

“Animal safari,” said Emily. “To see the people.” 

“Ah,” said John. He began the slow shuffle into the bedroom, Emily still attached to his leg. 

“Em, let your dad walk a little,” said Jane. 

“It’s all right,” said John. 

“John—” 

“I’m fine, Sherlock,” said John, careful to hold onto something with the hand not holding Emily’s head. “Is the safari in London, or Africa?” 

“London and Sinnapore to see Uncle Mycough,” explained Emily. 

“Singapore,” Sherlock corrected automatically, trailing behind John and Emily. He had long since given up on trying to correct her pronunciation of his brother’s name; it would come eventually, and in the meantime, it made Mycroft wince very slightly every time she said it, which was enough for Sherlock to let the mispronunciation continue. “And Singapore is a long way from London, Emily.” 

“I _know_ ,” said Emily with infinite patience as John sat heavily on the bed. She scrambled up beside him. “Will he be here?” 

“I don’t know, poppet,” said John, tired. “He said he would try.” 

“It’s my _birthday_ ,” said Emily, and her lip trembled. 

“He knows, poppet,” said John gently. 

“He’d better,” said Sherlock darkly. 

Emily wriggled around to sit on John’s lap, and put her hands on either side of his face. 

“I want a story,” she demanded, and pushed her hands together so that his mouth popped open. 

“Papa can tell you one,” said John. “Daddy needs to rest.” 

“Emily,” said Sherlock, but Emily shook her head wildly. 

“It’s all right,” said John, and he laid down with a sigh, not even bothering to remove his shoes. “Just hand me one of her storybooks, I’ll read to her for a few minutes. She’ll come find you soon enough.” 

Sherlock handed John one of the books from the pile next to the bed, and sat beside John, while Emily snuggled in between them, extremely pleased with herself. 

“‘Gerald was a tall giraffe,’” began John, “‘whose neck was long and slim…’” 

“G’raffe,” chirped Emily as she pointed to the animal. 

“Yes, giraffe, just like we saw at the zoo,” agreed John, and kept reading. “‘But his knees were awfully crooked and his legs were rather thin.’” 

Sherlock rested his head against the headboard. John’s voice was soothing, if a bit worn, but still clear over the clatter of Jane doing the washing up in the kitchen. 

All at once, Sherlock was annoyed – with Jane making noise in the kitchen, with John trying to hang streamers, with the party looming on the horizon and with Emily refusing to let John out of her sight. Didn’t any of them understand what was important? That he needed John first and foremost, and because John required rest and quiet and a chance to recover, Sherlock needed those things, too? 

Five months since Mycroft’s text had brought him home to find John in a coma, with the daughter he’d never met waiting for him at home. Weeks of physical therapy and medications for John, and for Sherlock, learning how to put a recalcitrant two-year-old to bed so that she stayed in bed. Weeks where he was too afraid to even _touch_ John, for fear of breaking him. 

And then when he did, the moment he rested his hand on John’s shoulder, stood close to him in the kitchen, held his hand for something as small as a momentary comfort or as significant as reasserting a claim – there was Emily, watching, eyes narrowed, uncertain and suspicious. 

Sherlock didn’t want to hurt John – but it had surprised him how badly he didn’t want to hurt Emily, either. 

Every day, for the previous five months, Sherlock had looked over his shoulder, waiting for Sebastian Moran to appear, to take them both away. _I will burn the heart out of you_ , Jim Moriarty had promised, and Moran was the only person left who could make good on the threat. If Sherlock thought he could lock John and Emily into 221B for the rest of their lives, and keep them safe, he would have done it without a second thought. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and wished – _prayed_ – for just an hour, a single hour in which he and John could talk without interruption or guilt. No Jane, no Emily, no Sebastian Moran looming over their heads, waiting to make good on the threat still evident every time John’s head hurt or he needed a moment to remember a telephone number. 

It was so. Bloody. _Tiresome_. 

“Papa,” said Emily, and Sherlock opened his eyes. The book had fallen onto John’s chest, rising and falling in a slow, steady beat. 

Sherlock let out the breath he’d been holding and eased the book out of John’s hands. 

“Daddy’s asleep, Emily,” he said quietly. “I can finish the book.” 

“I want the violin,” said Emily, and scrambled out of the bed over Sherlock’s legs. She pushed open the door to the wardrobe and pointed at the top shelf. Sherlock smiled. 

“Go line up the audience, then,” he said, and the little girl ran into the sitting room. Sherlock eased himself off the bed, careful not to jostle John too much. He listened to Jane and Emily prattle to one another while he removed John’s shoes, and pulled a blanket over him. 

“Don’t let me miss the party,” mumbled John. 

“I’ll wake you when everyone is here,” Sherlock promised him. 

“I hate this.” 

Sherlock reached under the blanket and took John’s hand to squeeze it. “I know.” 

John fell back asleep – or at least didn’t answer, and Sherlock turned the bedside lamp off. He pulled the violin case down from the top shelf and closed the door behind him. 

“You read, I play,” he said to Emily, and handed her the book. She flipped through the pages and giggled, and Sherlock rosined the bow quickly. The music wouldn’t wake John; nothing woke John, not when he was this tired. 

Emily pointed to a page, and Sherlock began to play. 

* 

The party was dull, but Sherlock expected that. Five small children, including Emily, bounced off the walls and raced circles around the adults, alternately playing their own private games or interfering with another’s. It was a finely balanced chaos, and the children enjoyed themselves immensely. They screamed for carrots and Jammy Dodgers, took single bites and left the remains on the floor and the windowsills, knocked over cups of juice, and placed sticky fingerprints on the wall. 

Mrs Hudson didn’t appear to mind, and John sat in a chair in the corner, watching it all with a smile on his face. 

The rest of the children’s parents grouped together along the edges, chatting and ignoring the chaos. Sherlock stayed on the fringes, still uncertain about his role with the others, most of whom still viewed him with everything from abject curiosity to outright dislike. John, however, held court from his seat, moving carefully between them, laughing in all the right places. The other parents glanced at Sherlock, and made no move to join him. Just as well; Sherlock wasn’t overly fond of any of them, couldn’t remember their names, though he knew which parent went with which child. Overly sensitive, boasting idiots, the lot of them, even if John did consider them friends. Sherlock waited until they’d moved away, leaving John sitting alone, and then went to stand beside him. 

“I wish you had slept another hour.” 

“I’ll catch up,” said John, eyes on Emily. 

“You can’t make up sleep, John.” 

“It’s not important.” 

“You’re tired.” 

John looked up at him, the skin around his eyes crinkling in amusement. “Hello, pot. How black you are looking today.” 

“Yes, well,” grumbled Sherlock, and he crossed his arms, unable to think of anything else to say. 

“Hey,” said John, and Sherlock felt John’s hand on his arm. “I promise to eat all my dinner tonight. I know you hate it when you eat more than I do.” 

Sherlock glared at John, but John grinned up at him. 

“This is why you should take naps,” said Sherlock. “You’re far more annoying when you’re well rested.” 

“Go on,” said John, and watched Mrs Hudson come in with the cake. 

Emily only had eyes for the cake. "Cake!" she cried, and followed Mrs Hudson to the table, a trail of small children after her. 

Her fathers, however, were more interested in the man who came in after Mrs Hudson. Sherlock immediately straightened, and felt his stomach clench. 

"Mycroft," he said shortly, his hand on John's shoulder. "So very glad you could make it after all." 

"I did promise," said Mycroft. 

"I thought you would be in Singapore for another three days." 

"I thought so as well," admitted Mycroft. 

“ _Uncle Mycough_!” 

Emily came barreling across the room and hit Mycroft’s legs with a force that would have knocked over a lesser man – or any man who hadn’t learned that Emily was something of a tornado. He smiled down at his niece. 

“Happy birthday, Emily.” 

“Papa said Sinnapore is very far away.” 

“It is,” confirmed Mycroft. “But I have been flying for a very long time.” 

“And boy, are his arms tired,” murmured John. 

Emily wrinkled her nose at John. “Uncle Mycough is a _bird_?” 

John leaned over to Emily. “It’s the umbrella,” he whispered. “Uncle Mycroft is _Mary Poppins_.” 

Emily stared up at Uncle Mycroft in complete awe for exactly three seconds. 

“No,” she said finally, and ran back to her friends. 

“You have no idea how long I have been waiting to use that,” said John. 

“I can only imagine,” said Mycroft. "I came to deliver Emily's birthday present." 

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Bit lacking in pink-wrapped prezzies, aren't you?" 

"It's not that sort of present," said Mycroft. "Sebastian Moran is dead." 

John and Sherlock blinked, almost in time with each other. 

"I think I've heard this song before," said Sherlock. 

"Dead?" said John slowly. 

"In Singapore, five days ago. I escorted the body back to England myself via military transport and did not leave it alone or with anyone else for a single minute. In fact, I just came from the crematorium, where I personally supervised its destruction." Mycroft handed Sherlock a thumb drive. "Copies of the coroner's report, dental records, DNA testing, photographs, everything documented clearly and unequivocally. This was indeed Colonel Sebastian Moran, and he is undoubtedly deceased. It includes video of the actual cremation." 

"Dead," repeated John, staring at the thumb drive in Sherlock’s hand. 

"Very much so," said Mycroft. "He was posing as a sailor, and got into a fight in a rather seedy district. Rather anti-climactic, I know, but I think we will all sleep better in our beds tonight, don't you?" 

The singing began on the other side of the room. The three men did not join in, though John struggled to his feet and went to join his daughter to help her with the candles. Sherlock rubbed the thumb drive between his fingers. 

"It's too neat," he said quietly. "A drunken brawl in Singapore?" 

"Sometimes things end well, brother," said Mycroft. 

Sherlock pocketed the thumb drive and watched John steady Emily on the chair so she could blow out her candles. He kept his fingers on the thumb drive and made his own wish. 

"You'll stay for cake, of course," he said dryly. 

"I wouldn't want to deny you the pleasure," replied Mycroft, equally as dry. 

"And John will insist." 

"John, at least, is extremely gracious. Apart from Mary Poppins, of course." 

Sherlock's mouth quirked as he watched John help Mrs Hudson pass out slices of cake. "I refuse to believe that it's over." 

"Sherlock—" 

"I have spent four years running, Mycroft," said Sherlock, low and nearly hissing under his breath. " _Four years_ with Moriarty over my shoulder, dead or alive, trying to take everything I hold dear from me. And you're telling me the last threat was murdered in a drunken brawl in Singapore? No. The world is not that simple, and I've known too many people who have faked their death to set others at ease. Myself included." 

Mycroft sighed. "I knew you would be this way. That's why I went to Singapore." 

"Yes, and you've been wrong before. You should have asked me." 

“Emily’s birthday—” 

“Is not more important than Emily’s safety,” said Sherlock firmly. 

“And if it had not been true?” asked Mycroft quietly. “If it had been a ruse to get you out of the country and leave John and Emily exposed? What then?” 

Sherlock stared at John and Emily across the room. “You would not have left them unprotected.” 

“You have trusted me before,” said Mycroft dryly. 

Emily grinned up at John as she took a slice of cake from him. Button nose, pearly teeth, bright eyes, bouncing curls. The descriptions were both accurate and utterly cliché, and Sherlock wondered why he couldn’t think of more apt adjectives when he saw the way they looked at each other, as if John and Emily considered themselves the only people worth smiling for in the world. 

“I didn’t know everything I had to lose, before,” said Sherlock. 

John approached, carrying two slices of cake. "Sherlock, stop arguing and eat some of your daughter’s birthday cake." 

"I don't want cake," said Sherlock petulantly. 

John handed Mycroft the other slice. "Are you sure? About Moran." 

"Yes," said Mycroft. 

"Completely?" 

"As sure as I can be," said Mycroft quietly. "I would not have said anything if I was not absolutely convinced that Sebastian Moran is dead and incapable of hurting either of you anymore." 

"Irene Adler," said Sherlock. 

"What Sherlock means is thank you," said John. 

" _Twice_ ," said Sherlock. 

"Eat your cake," John told him. 

"No." 

"Sulk if you want to," said John. "But I'm going to believe Mycroft. I agree," he added, raising his hand to stall Sherlock’s rebuttal. "Mycroft doesn't have a good track record when it comes to determining dead bodies, but I'm tired, Sherlock. I'm tired of looking over my shoulder and waiting for the worst, and it's Emily's birthday, and I'd like to at least spend the rest of the day not worrying that something awful is going to happen. All right? Can you give me that?" 

Sherlock banged his head softly against the wall. "Today," he acknowledged. "I can give you today." 

"Thank you," said John. He pressed Sherlock's arm. "Eat the cake, it's good." 

"You should have some." 

"Daddy!" Emily called from the other side of the room, and John grinned. 

"Later. I'm on the clock now." 

John walked into the fray of small children and sat in the middle, where they proceeded to toss balloons at him while he tried to bat them away, laughing. Sherlock ignored the cake in favor of watching him. 

"John is looking much improved today." 

"I'm not going to discuss John with you," said Sherlock firmly. "For one thing, I don't think John would want you to know the details of his medical record, and for another, _I_ don't want you to know the details. And don't tell me you could find them yourself, because while I have no doubt that you could and would have done already, I'd like to think you have a modicum of decency and would not without our permission." 

"He is still on the suppressants." 

Sherlock exhaled. "Sod off, Mycroft." 

"You do know that the longer—" 

Sherlock set the cake down on John's chair and pushed away from the wall. He joined John on the floor and submitted to the pummeling of the balloons from the increasingly sugar-supplemented toddlers. John grinned at him, and Sherlock smiled gamely in response. Acting as a climbing gym for three-year-olds wasn't exactly the way he wanted to spend his time, but it was at least better than being grilled about his sex life by his brother. 

* 

Mycroft had long since left by the time the party came to a close. Jane kissed Emily goodbye and left for a much-deserved weekend with her parents, and Mrs Hudson set to the washing up in her kitchen. Emily happily helped Sherlock carry the balloons and boxes upstairs, chatting about the party and the games and what Isobel and Trevor and Rupert had all said about everything. Sherlock listened and once in a while got a word in edgewise, and remembered when Emily hadn’t wanted to say more than three words to him, and how everyone had assured him he would soon miss the quiet. 

He never really did, though. 

By the time 221C was cleared of debris, Emily’s sugar high had begun to fade into a short temper and quick mood shifts. Sherlock gave John a dark look when he finally came through the door. 

“You helped Mrs Hudson with the chairs,” he accused. 

“I’m not going to shatter if I pick up a chair,” said John firmly. “Emily, come sit and I’ll read you a story.” 

“Story!” sang Emily, and flung herself to the pile of books by the window. 

“Changing the subject,” said Sherlock, matching Emily’s sing-song pattern. 

“Clever of you to notice,” replied John, and sat in his armchair, where Emily joined him with three of her favorite books. 

Sherlock tuned his violin in the corner, half an eye on John reading to Emily. She was fidgety at first, and then gradually settled down in John’s arms. By the time Sherlock finished rosining his bow and was ready to play, her eyes were half closed. She was asleep before he finished the song, her small head resting on John’s shoulder. 

John sighed with relief and closed the book. He rested his head against Emily’s, and tapped his fingers on the armrest in time with the music. Sherlock saw and his mouth quirked, but he didn’t stop playing until the song was over. 

“I can take her,” he said, setting the violin back in its case. 

“Cheers,” said John, and Sherlock slid his hands under their daughter, against the roughness of John’s jumper. “What song was it?” 

Sherlock lifted Emily and rested her against his chest. It took a moment to find his center of balance with her added weight before he could stand. The leg he’d broken in his fall still bothered him in the cold, and it had been aching softly all morning. “Nothing really. My own composition.” 

“Lovely,” said John, and Sherlock smiled before turning to take Emily up to her bedroom. 

She barely woke when he laid her down, just enough, really, to speak. “I like my balloons,” she murmured, and Sherlock brushed her curls from her face. 

“I’m glad,” he told her, and tucked the blanket around her feet. 

John was still in the armchair when he came back downstairs, looking out the window thoughtfully. 

“She’s asleep,” said Sherlock quietly, unable to curb the impulse to speak softly. He lifted the violin out of its case and cradled it in the nook of his arm while he went to find the linseed oil. 

“She’s had a long day,” said John. “I’m not surprised she fell asleep, but it’s probably the last nap we’ll ever have out of her.” 

The linseed oil was on the top shelf in the kitchen, along with the pile of soft cloths; Sherlock brought the lot back into the sitting room and sat on the wingchair opposite John. He set the violin over his knees while he prepared. “You’ve been thinking.” 

“I might not be you, but I do think on occasion,” was all John said. 

“Yes, but whatever you’re thinking about is making your forehead crease in unpleasant ways.” 

“Go on, then, tell me what I’m thinking about.” 

Sherlock began to rub the oil into the wood in a careful, practiced pattern. “I don’t need to deduce. You’re thinking about Moran.” 

"I would ask how you knew but..." John shrugged. "Yeah, I'm thinking about him. Poor sod." 

Sherlock paused for a moment. "John. The man tried to _kill_ you." 

"I'm having a little trouble reconciling the fact that someone I considered a _friend_ tried to kill me, all right? So give me a day to at least think about the bastard." 

Sherlock concentrated on the cloth in his hand, and the crook of his violin. "Is that what he was? A friend?" 

"I realize your definition of 'friend' is a bit wonky," said John dryly. "But yes. Maybe not in the same way I'm friends with Percy or Greg or even you, on your good days, but he was someone who I could talk to about...things." 

"Afghanistan." 

"Among other topics, yes." 

"You can talk to Bill Murray about Afghanistan." 

John didn't answer; he rested his chin on his hand and looked back out the window. "Not really," he said finally. 

"Bill was in Afghanistan with you, and though you talk infrequently, I suspect he would appreciate hearing from you more often—" 

"Bill never killed anyone," said John shortly. "And I'd rather Bill not know about some of my darker moments, ta." 

Sherlock scooped up another dollop of linseed oil. "You can talk to me." 

"Well, I couldn't exactly, on account of having watched you jump off the roof of Bart's," John pointed out, an edge in his voice. "Apparently you’re not the only one with a wonky definition of ‘friend’." 

Sherlock froze and his heart clenched. John sighed and rubbed his face. 

"Sorry, I'm...." He sighed again. "I'm not myself today. Sodding suppressants." 

"You could stop taking them," Sherlock heard himself say. 

John stared at him for a moment. "I'm not letting a heat get in the way of Emily's birthday party. And you're the one who asks if I've taken my meds every morning." 

"I meant..." But Sherlock fell silent. 

"Well? I'd like to hear this," prodded John. "You won't take me to bed but you want me to have a heat?" 

Sherlock exhaled. "There are...other ways...." 

"No, Sherlock. I don't want the other ways," said John, leaning forward in the chair now. "If I'm going to have a heat, I want _you_. Just you, not some bleeding silicone substitute. And you'll barely touch me, because of some ridiculous fear of yours that you'll break me or I'll shatter into a thousand pieces, and I'm _not that bloody fragile_." 

"You're still recovering—" 

"No, I'm not," said John firmly. "I'm nearly done with physical therapy, I'm off the dilantin, and if I need a nap every so often, it's not a sign that I'm going to slip back into a coma at a moment's notice. The bones are healed and maybe my memory's not quite as sharp as it used to be, but I do remember that there was a time when you actually _wanted_ to make love, heat or no heat, and in the five months since you've come home, you’ve barely done anything more physical than hold my hand." 

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "As you say, John, your memory must not be as sharp as it used to be, because that is patently untrue." 

"It's fine," John interrupted him. "You know, I don’t care. Touch me, don’t touch me, but for the love of Christ, stop sending me the mixed messages. You’re a grown man, Sherlock. You ought to be able to make up your mind what it is you want from me. " 

He picked up the newspaper lying on the table and shook it open. 

"John." 

John didn't answer. 

"I can't..." 

John sighed. "Just take care of your violin, Sherlock. I'd like to pretend to read the paper while I mourn the man who tried to kill me, if that's all right by you?" 

The room fell quiet; Sherlock concentrated on rubbing the linseed oil into the gentle curves of the violin, a soothing motion against the smooth wood that in no way reminded him of the small of John's back or the concave hollows formed when he stretched his arms up over his head. 

The shadows lengthened as the afternoon wore on; the flat remained quiet and the ticking clock in the corner counted Sherlock’s breaths in time with John’s, who every so often remembered to turn a page of the newspaper. 

It was nearly four in the afternoon when John finally looked up at the clock and swore. “Christ, she’ll never get to bed tonight,” he said with a sigh, and pushed himself out of the armchair. 

Sherlock, sprawled across the wingchair, idly plucking at the violin, started to sit up. “I can get her.” 

“No, it’s all right. I need to stretch my legs,” said John and he dropped his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “Look, what I said earlier—” 

“Leave it,” said Sherlock. 

“No, but—” 

“ _Leave it_.” He turned his head so that his cheek rested against John’s hand, and pressed their skin together. “I said I’d give you the day. We’ll talk about it later.” 

John paused for a moment, and then squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder. “Right,” he said softly, and Sherlock could tell that John didn’t quite believe him. “I love you. It’s not lip service.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I never thought it was.” 

John smiled slightly, and made his slow way up the stairs to Emily’s bedroom. 

Sherlock waited, still plucking at the violin, marking out the tune he still thought of as Emily’s, and imagined John lifting the blinds, touching Emily’s shoulder, speaking softly to the little girl, maybe changing her dress and smoothing back her curls. And then coming down the stairs, sleepy and a little grumpy, the way she always was after a nap now that she’d outgrown them. Perhaps a walk to the park in the crisp February air; that might suit them, give them a chance to breathe a little. Yes. 

Sherlock had just swung his legs off the wingchair when John shouted. “Emily. _Emily. SHERLOCK!_ ” 

Sherlock sprang to his feet, and ran up the stairs. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Sherlock quotes is “Do not stand at my grave and weep” by Mary Elizabeth Frye. If you don’t know it, [you should](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Do_Not_Stand_at_My_Grave_and_Weep).

John Watson was running late, and the threatening rainclouds hanging over London did not help. The Londoners around him might be well used to rain, but they still scurried in an effort to reach shelter before the storm broke, which made trying to navigate a toddler in a pushchair that much more tricky. Particularly when the toddler hadn’t wanted to put on her coat, or her shoes, or her ribbons in her hair, and was quite vocal about it, long after the coat, shoes, and ribbons were fixed on her person. 

John had thought that a newborn Emily was difficult. Then he thought that a just-learning-to-walk Emily was difficult. Now he was faced with the just-turned-two-years-old Emily, and he had begun to research boarding schools. To pass the time, really. A bit of wishful thinking in his more desperate moments. 

With Emily dropped off at her nursery (where she then had a tantrum and screamed how she did not _want_ to attend school, she wanted him to stay and _play_ ), John thought about just finding a cab for the rest of the way to the clinic. It was normally a very easy walk, but he was running late, the skies were threatening, and he had inexplicably forgotten his umbrella in his rush to get them out the door. 

Of course, everyone else had the same idea, and John had never been one to hail a cab successfully. That was Sherlock's job. 

Nearly three years on, and John could think of Sherlock and not be crippled by it. He deemed that to be something akin to recovery. 

So John walked, half an eye on the sky and his hands in his pockets, and like every other Londoner he passed, he went quickly and without paying attention, which is how he bumped into the man walking backwards, shielding his eyes. 

"Sorry, sorry," apologized John, reaching down to help the man to his feet. "Didn't mean to bump into you—" 

The man gave him an odd look but did not reach for him just yet. "Quite all right, my fault entirely. Just a bit lost. I'm looking for the Vincent Square Clinic?" 

John smiled. "Your lucky day, then. That's where I'm headed." 

"Splendid," said the man, and took John's hand to pull himself to his feet. 

"Right around this corner," said John. He thought about going on ahead, but quickly dismissed the idea - fine doctor he would be, leaving a patient to carry on behind. At any rate, the man didn't seem impaired. At least, he walked reasonably well enough. "Been overseas, have you?" 

The man stared at him. "I'm sorry, how did you—?" 

John laughed nervously. "Ah - sorry. Old habit of a friend of mine, I think I picked it up. You've been somewhere warm; your neck is tanned, but the skin under your collar is not. He figured out the same about me when we met." 

"Ah," said the man, and for a moment John thought he was about to be told to piss off - shades of Sherlock again - but then the man offered his hand again. "Colonel Sebastian Moran, retired, of course. And yes, you were correct about my time overseas. Afghanistan, among other places." 

John blinked and took Moran's hand. "Dr John Watson. Captain, actually, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. I was in Kabul, off and on from 2007 through 2009." 

"I was fortunate enough not to need your services, Doctor. Until now, that is." 

The rain began to fall, and John glared up at the skies and turned up his collar. _Sherlock again_. The day seemed to be full of him. 

"Then let's get out of the rain and see what I can do for you," said John. 

* 

It was a mild gastrointestinal problem, as well as a recurring UTI, which was easily diagnosed and the remedies supplied. The entire visit ought to have taken no more than twenty minutes, but John found himself talking with Moran for well over forty-five, completely heedless of both the time and the number of patients waiting to be seen. Part of this was just the relief of finding someone who didn't ask about Sherlock, try to look sympathetic without also looking disdainful or pitying (it was usually one or the other), or what it was like to have bullets flying for you, and not you but what you represented. John hated having to answer those questions, because they were almost always followed up with how he felt about the political side of the war, and the truth was that the political side meant very little when the bullets were whizzing by your head. 

But a great deal of the relief was in part because after some comparison, it turned out that John did actually remember Colonel Moran, though Moran did not remember him. 

"Sorry, old boy," apologized Moran. "Too many soldiers in those sharpshooting courses; too many courses bundled up together and shoved through without much thought that it takes time to learn how to really shoot well. I can't remember more than ten or twenty students, and I must have taught the skills to a thousand." 

"You did all right by me," said John. "What you taught me saved my life. My alpha's too, a few times." 

"Glad to hear that, anyway," said Moran with a smile. "Don't hear that often enough. Do you still shoot?" 

"No - no time for it." 

" _Make_ time," Moran said, and John recognized the gruff persona from the not-quite forgotten sharpshooting courses. 

"Not as though anyone's shooting at me anymore," he said, and wondered why he felt sad about it. 

"Nothing to do with that, lad," said Moran. "It's about retaining a skill and keeping yourself sharp. Bisley isn't too far, there's a fine shooting range there. I have a membership and go every week. You should join me sometime and we'll see if we can't keep you shooting straight." 

"I'll think about it," said John, and he turned back to the papers on his clipboard. 

"No, you won't," said Moran, giving him a look. "I can see that in your eyes. You think it's all behind you, is that it? Think you can hang up the battlefield in the back of the closet like last winter's coat and just forget it happened? No. It's with you every day, isn't it, Dr Watson? Every morning you wake up and you'd like to think your life is fine and easy but you're reminded of what you learned and lost before you've even finished breakfast." 

The pen rattled against the clipboard where John's hand trembled, and he made a fist and pushed it into his thigh. _Emily_ , he thought, the small face that looked so much like Sherlock, her dark curls caught in ribbons, her never-ending incomprehensible chatter that would have delighted her father to no end. 

"It's still part of you. You'll never lay the ghost until you face it," said Moran. 

John blinked. He didn't dare move, much less look at Moran. Army officers didn't cry. 

"I'll be at Bisley at eleven o'clock, Saturday," said Moran as he got to his feet. "I hope to see you there, Captain Watson." 

Moran left the room, taking his prescription with him. John remained seated for some time afterwards. 

* 

It was a long slog to Bisley, but Mrs Hudson had a day planned for Emily, involving the zoo and introducing Elfin to the zebras, with the idea that she would fall asleep in her pushchair on the way home. 

"Are you sure you'll be all right, Mrs Hudson?" asked John, eyeing his daughter, who seemed determined to bring every stuffed animal she could on the adventure. 

"Go away," said Mrs Hudson. "You deserve a day off once in a while." 

_To shoot things, yes, of course_ , thought John, and gave Emily a kiss goodbye. She didn't seem terribly concerned, and John was so disconcerted that he left his book on the kitchen table, and ended up staring out the window on the train toward Surrey. It was another ten minutes by car to Bisley's front gate, and for a moment, John wondered how he was to get in. 

"Ah, yes, Captain Watson," said the guard with a smile. "Colonel Moran said you might be joining him today, sir. You'll find him near the Clay Tower." 

"Ah - there's a fee?" 

"Already covered, sir. Have a good shoot." 

"Yes, I hope to," said John, somewhat bemused, and followed the road indicated on the map he'd been given. It was a beautiful walk, at least, and the weather was perfect, particularly for early spring in England. The clouds were wisps that posed no danger to anyone; the ground was springy beneath his feet. He could hear the far-off crack of shotguns, but in the pleasant countryside they didn't incite the same terror as in the bleak, sandy desert. There were daffodils and crocuses already popping up here and there, and John would have been content just to walk around and breathe in the fresh air. 

All too soon, he found himself nearing what he assumed was the Clay Tower, and before he could get his bearings, heard someone call his name. 

"Watson! Over here!" 

Moran was waving his arm to John's left; John left the road and picked his way along a barely trodden path to join him. 

"Your shotgun," said Moran by way of greeting, and John wondered if the older man had doubted for a moment that John would join him. "Clay targets; wasn't sure how you felt about the real thing." 

"Clay is fine," said John, taking the shotgun and giving its heft a try. "Been a while since I've shot one of these." 

"Riding a bike, dear boy. Just like riding a bike. _Pull_." 

Two clay birds were shot in the air; Moran shot them both cleanly, and turned to smile at John. 

"Oh, that's not fair," said John with a grin. "I haven't shot in...five years? And you're here every week, you said." 

"I looked you up," said Moran. "A surgeon, weren't you, before your shoulder was bollocksed up. Steady hands. I remember you now. You could have been a sharpshooter if you'd gotten tired of the knife." 

"Well, now I can't do either," said John. 

"Doesn't mean you're out to pasture yet," said Moran. "Look at me - I've got ten years on you but my eyes are still as sharp as they come. Pick up the gun, let's see what you've got in you." 

John lifted the shotgun in a single motion, resting the butt against his right shoulder. He could feel the stretch in his left shoulder, where the skin pulled against the wound, but he'd felt worse carrying Emily about, so it was easy to ignore. It felt....natural. Like slipping into an extremely comfortable coat he'd forgotten he owned. 

The one that still hung at the back of the wardrobe, just as Moran had said. 

"Pull!" shouted Moran. 

"No, wait—" 

But it was too late, and the clay birds were up. John held his breath, aimed, and fired. 

One clay pigeon fell unharmed. The other exploded. 

"Ha!" laughed John, lowering the shotgun. He turned to Moran with a grin on his face. "I actually hit one." 

"So," said Moran. "We've got our work cut out for us." 

John’s grin didn’t falter. In fact, it grew wider. 

* 

John dreamed of Sherlock. Not every night, not even every week, but often enough that he was well-used to them, and when he woke after a Sherlock dream, he felt content and comfortable in a way he'd forgotten he knew how to be. 

It had taken a while to become used to the dreams. At first, he’d wake up, frustrated and angry and screaming, his heart pounding, and he’d claw his way back to sleep, because he was utterly convinced that if only he could stay in the dream, Sherlock would give him some kind of message, some kind of reassurance that everything would be fine. It never happened. And after a while, John realized that it wasn’t that Sherlock was trying to talk to him from death, but that John was looking for something that wasn’t there. Sherlock was dead; he wasn’t communicating to John in his sleep. The dreams were just John’s subconscious keeping Sherlock close. Nothing more, nothing less. 

"You're shooting again," said Sherlock, accusingly, as he walked the tightrope, arms outstretched. John stood on the platform, hands in his pockets. They were five storeys up, and John wasn't particularly enamored of heights any longer, but he knew he was in no danger of falling. For some reason, he wasn’t worried about Sherlock falling either; the first time he’d woken having dreamed of Sherlock on a tightrope, he’d nearly had a panic attack, but now he was used to them. 

"I am," said John. "Do you mind?" 

"I mind that you neglected it for so long. Shouldn't neglect a skill-set, John. Quite sloppy of you." 

"You should see the kitchen floor after mealtimes, you'd reassess your definition of sloppy," said John wryly. 

Sherlock took a few steps forward on the tightrope. "You were always a reasonably good shot." 

" _Thank_ you." 

"You were better than reasonable," added Sherlock grudgingly, and John grinned. "It never hurts to be prepared." 

"No one's trying to kill me these days, Sherlock." 

"You sound so sure. Do you trust him?" 

"No one is going to kill me on the firing range." 

"On the firing range, no." 

"Moran was a soldier. He wasn't the first person to teach me to shoot a gun but he was the best." 

"He's preparing you." 

"For what? I'm hardly going back into the Army, not with my shoulder and Emily to raise. And it's not about preparation. It's about - time, I suppose. Trying to retain a little bit of the man I was once." 

"You're still that man." 

"Hardly. I'm skinned knees and nappies and beans on toast for dinner," said John, but Sherlock didn't appear to hear. He never did, when Emily came up. 

"You're a force of nature, John Watson." 

"I wish you'd at least acknowledge her," said John with a sigh. "I know you didn't know about her before you died, but I would have thought you'd know about her now that you’re dead." 

Sherlock moved three steps back on the tightrope, and slowly lifted one leg up, balancing on his toes. 

"Do you enjoy it? I would think you do. That moment when it's you and your target and your gun, before the crack and the heat." Sherlock held still, thoughtful. "Do you miss it?" 

"Sometimes. I miss you more." 

Sherlock smiled, that familiar little quirk of the lips that showed he was pleased, before his face settled back into its thoughtful plainness. He lowered his leg. "The gun and I are tied up with one another. You can't miss one of us more than the other." 

"I knew the gun long before I knew you." 

"But did you know it better?" 

John thought about that. "I knew it completely. I never knew all of you." 

"Didn't you?" 

"If I had," said John, and he paused to take a breath. "If I had known all of you, I'd understand why you jumped." 

"You do understand." 

"I understand you told me a pack of lies," John said. "I don't understand why you told them." 

Sherlock shrugged. "Yes, you do." 

"Sherlock—" 

"You have the gun back," said Sherlock. "Do...do you want me back as well?" 

"Every day," said John, with feeling. 

"Does having the gun make me closer?" 

John paused. "That moment when I hold my breath, before I pull the trigger, and the world goes quiet. You're there. I can feel your breath on my cheek." 

"Just the wind." 

"No. You." 

Sherlock smiled, walked easily and smoothly to the end of the tightrope, an arm's length from John. "I am the thousand winds that blow." 

John scoffed, and looked away. "Don't recite me poetry. You didn't do it in life, I seriously doubt you took it up in death." 

"Oh, but this one was at my funeral. Can't forget that." 

"And anyway, if you're the thousand winds, then you admit that you _are_ blowing on my cheek when I'm shooting." 

"I admit nothing," said Sherlock, and he turned and walked back the other way. "At least you followed the instructions, John." 

"Instructions?" 

"Do not stand at my grave and weep," recited Sherlock, back still to John. "You haven't visited my grave in a month." 

John swallowed. "I know. I'm sorry." 

"I'm not. I am not there, I do not sleep." 

"You never slept." 

"You never cried." 

"Not true," said John, with a brisk shake of his head. "I cried. For weeks. For months. You - you were dead. You couldn't know. There's a lot you never had a chance to know." 

"Didn't I?" asked Sherlock, still walking, his voice growing fainter as the tightrope stretched into the distance. 

"Of course not." John raised his voice to shout. "You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know about Emily—" 

John's eyes snapped open, his daughter's name on his lips. The bedroom was dark and still, and the sheets next to him were cold. 

It’d been a long time since he’d woken, reaching for Sherlock. It’d been longer since he tried to confront the dream about Emily – stupid. The Sherlock in his dream was only a trick of his subconscious. There was no point in telling his subconscious things he already knew. 

John closed his eyes, rubbed his face with his hands, and tried to catch his breath as the world spun circles beneath him. 

* 

He couldn’t go to the shooting range every weekend – it was impractical, and unfair to Mrs Hudson, who had her own life to lead. He felt too guilty leaving Emily with the nursery five days a week as it was, only to abandon her every weekend as well. 

“Bring her along,” said Moran. “Plenty of space to play.” 

But John didn’t want to do that either. Emily might have liked the meadow and the flowers and certainly he was sure that everyone they met would be more than kind to her, but he didn’t want his daughter anywhere near the shooting range. Less because of the guns, though certainly that was a factor, and there was a very good reason he kept his pistol unloaded and under lock and key. More because while he liked Sebastian Moran, thought well of his teaching skills and his enthusiasm, there was something not quite right about him. John couldn’t put his finger on it, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that had Sherlock been there, he would have immediately pointed out the worn patch on Moran’s shoe or the way his cuff was frayed, and why those tells made Moran’s oddness obvious and easily explained. 

It wasn’t as though John thought Moran would be unkind or inappropriate with Emily; much the opposite. He’d watched as Moran carefully and patiently explained proper firearms handling to the young boys who had come along with their fathers, and then there had been the day he’d comforted a five-year-old girl who had wandered too far in the meadow and been separated from her family. No matter what odd feeling Moran gave John, it had nothing to do with the man’s ability to interact with children. 

Moran never asked about John’s personal life, about where he lived and what he did, how he’d saved his life and Sherlock’s with his shooting skills. And so John never offered the information, and if Moran thought that his alpha was still alive, and wasn’t sure how old Emily was, that made it easier to keep the parts of his life separate. 

The only time it did collide was in late July. Harry had Emily that day, with plans for the aquarium and strict orders to be home in plenty of time for her date at the cinema that afternoon. When John arrived at Bisley, he found Moran waiting for him at the entrance, which had a neat sign on it saying, “Closed for Competition”. 

"Forgot about the competition," said Moran by way of apology. "There's the Range, but it's for customers only. We’d have to make them think we intended to purchase something." 

"Nah, no need to resort to subterfuge," said John. The disappointment surprised him; he'd actually looked forward to shooting when he woke up that morning, and Emily hadn't seemed to mind when he left without her. He'd almost felt giddy on the train going out to Bisley, and that in itself was unusual. "Weather's shite, anyway." 

Moran glanced up at the sky, overcast and ready to break into storms. "Yeah," he said after a moment. "Builder's tea alright?" 

"Yeah, okay," said John without thinking too hard about it, and followed Moran to his car, a rat-trap ramshackle thing that could have been held together by spit and shoe-polish. John gave it an eye, and thought about the clearly well-maintained and expensive guns Moran used. "This yours?" 

"Four wheels and an engine, don't need much more," said Moran, and he put the gun cases in the backseat. "It's got seatbelts." 

"Oh, well, in _that_ case," said John, and he slid into the passenger seat. 

The car ran well, at least, despite its appearance. Extremely good pick-up and a smooth ride, and John tried to remember everything he'd learned about engines, because the ride defied the image. Moran didn't notice his surprise when the car took a corner at high speed without a stutter. John thought about asking where Moran had learned to drive, and in the end didn't. 

The ride was just over an hour; John half wondered if they were driving to the ends of the earth before they were done, but the conversation flowed in sharing war stories about Afghanistan and Kosovo, the sorts of stories that only were told in the presence of other retired Army, the ones that lost something when the listener hadn't experienced the same thing. John giggled and Moran roared with laughter; John mourned and Moran hit the steering wheel with the flat of his hand in angered remembrance. By the time the car was pulling up the rocky drive to the little cottage in Chistlehurst, the odd feeling in the back of John's head had dissipated, and he looked at the little house with interest. 

"This your place?" The cottage was nice, decently well-kept, and John could spy a garden in the back. He half thought of Emily running around on the grass, and knew she would have liked it. 

"Rent's cheap," said Moran. "Quiet. Too far from Bisley, but it'll do." He reached into the backseat for the guns. 

John was still lost in the daydream, imagining Emily wearing floral chains. But that would require moving from Baker Street, letting go of the last of Sherlock's memory palace (because John always thought of the memory palace as an extension of 221B, as ridiculous as that was). John pushed the thought away. 

"Here, I can carry one," he offered, reaching for one of the guns, but Moran's grip tightened on them. 

"No, I have them," he said evenly, and John shrugged and followed him inside. 

The cottage was still and stale, and clearly had not been prepared for company. There was dust on the table by the door, newspapers strewn across the living room, and through the door into the kitchen, John could see a pile of washing-up waiting in the sink. The scent of burnt toast hung in the air, but it wasn't any worse than John had seen - hell, had lived in, when he was a bachelor on his own, before Mary had domesticated him, and Sherlock had introduced test tubes and microscopes into his life. Moran, however, flitted about like a demented dragonfly, setting the guns on the sofa in the living room before sweeping up the newspapers into his arms before rushing to put them in a back bedroom. 

"No need to clean on my account," called John. 

"Have to eat somewhere," Moran called over his shoulder. 

A forgotten clipping fluttered to the floor by the sofa, and nearly escaped under it. John went over to pick it up, in case it was important, and only had time for a brief glimpse of the headline before he heard Moran's return. 

_“...DETECTIVE CLEARED OF..."_

"Tea or coffee?" asked Moran, and John shoved the clipping into his pocket. 

"Whatever you're having is fine," said John, and turned, hoping his expression was neutral enough not to tip Moran off. But Moran had already turned away, into the kitchen. John shoved the clipping further into his pocket, and followed. 

Except for the washing up in the sink, the tiny kitchen was spotless. There was barely enough counter space for a toaster and an electric kettle, and the miniscule table had only one chair, which was covered in an obnoxious floral print worthy of John's grandmother. In fact, the entire kitchen was decorated with pansies and poppies and large green apple leaves, and John stifled a giggle. 

"Poncy, I know," said Moran. He was at the counter spreading Marmite on bread. "None of it's mine; my kit's still in storage in York. Couldn't see to be bothered to get it out." 

"Why should you, with this lovely decor?" asked John, deadpan. 

Moran pointed the butter knife at him. "I might be older but I can still whip your arse from here to Cornwall." 

"No, really, it's lovely. Surprised there isn't a matching apron." 

"There is," said Moran, jerking his head to the peg on the wall, where a frilly pink-and-green apron was hanging. "Go try it on for size." 

John chuckled. The kettle whistled, and Moran poured the boiling water into the prepared mugs, each plastered with a laurel-leaf circled image. Moran dropped three sugars in each, and handed the plate of sandwiches and a few bags of crisps to John. 

"No room to eat in here," he said, and John carried the sandwiches back to the living room. Moran followed with the mugs, setting one on the table next to John, who gave it a closer look. 

"Egypt?" he asked, reading the words under the sphinx. "Looks military, whatever this symbol is." 

"Madras Engineers," said Moran, and he turned his mug to show John the dragon on his mug, also ringed with laurel leaves. "Worked with 'em in Bangalore for a few years. Good group, excellent shooters." 

"I didn't know we had anyone in Bangalore," said John with some surprise. 

"We don't," said Moran after a pause. He took a rough, hungry bite out of one of the sandwiches, his eyes focused squarely on John. 

John knew evasion; this wasn't it, but he still dropped the subject and picked up a sandwich instead. Good thing he was solidly on the Marmite side of the camp; Emily, too, which he knew would have driven Sherlock spare, and he made a mental note to pick some up on his way home. 

The talk circled back to familiar territory, and soon the tension in Moran's shoulders relaxed, and John was able to laugh at one of the more ridiculous stories about a goat and an American and a jeep, but he remained conscious of the clipping in his pocket, which crinkled when he moved. The sandwiches and crisps were long gone and the tea mugs drained when John stretched. 

"Need to get back—" 

"I'll drive you to the station," said Moran. 

"Could I, before I go—?" 

"Hall, first door on the left." 

John found the loo and resisted the urge to look at the clipping with the door locked while he took care of business. The loo was decorated as frivolously as the kitchen; pastel flowers and a little china dog sitting by the sink, with towels embroidered with ladybugs and butterflies. It was an utterly ridiculous lavatory and John was glad to be out of it. 

The kitchen sink was going full tilt when John reentered the hall. He started down the hall to rejoin Moran when one of the photographs along the wall caught his eye. John hadn't planned to look at them at all - given the rest of the decor, he was sure they were of grandchildren and other things that had nothing to do with Moran, but then he spotted the familiar bland colors of Afghanistan, and stopped to look more closely. 

_16th Signal Regiment, 2006_  
 _Afghanistan_

John stared at the familiar clothes, the haircuts, the reddened faces that were recognizable as those belonging to recruits newly under the hot desert sun. He scanned the photo, until he saw Moran, standing at the rear and to the side, at attention, staring straight at the camera. 

And then he slowly moved down the hall, looking at the photos. The dates were sequential, and he had an idea what he was looking for, but all the same, he almost didn't see it until he'd passed it. 

_Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, 2007_  
 _Afghanistan_

John didn't quite remember taking the photograph. The early days in Afghanistan were a blur of sun and dust and sleepless haze; he had no idea how he'd managed to survive the first month without being blasted into oblivion. But somehow his eyes, having found the photograph, went straight to his face, front corner, on his knee. He wasn't looking at the camera, but somewhere off to the side, a half smile on his face, as if he remembered something amusing. John wondered what he'd been thinking; probably concentrating on not falling over in exhaustion. Or elation. Somewhere in between, most probably. 

John's hand went to the clipping in his pocket. He was certain he knew what it was about; and now a picture of himself on the wall. Amongst a thousand other men, but there was a cold knot in his stomach, and when the water in the kitchen shut off, John forced himself to keep moving, and found Moran wiping his hands dry on a towel. 

"Thought you fell in," said Moran casually. 

"Mesmerized by the china dog," said John, and Moran snorted in either amusement or derision. 

"Get you home to your daughter," said Moran, throwing the towel onto the table. 

"Yeah," said John, and this time, he paid attention to where they were driving. He waited until he had boarded the train home before typing the remembered address into his phone and sending it to his sister. 

_On the train now, coming from 274 Worlds End Lane, Chistlehurst. Back in however long it takes, you do the maths._

The message sent, John pulled out the clipping from his pocket. It took another moment before he was brave enough to read it. 

_’NET DETECTIVE CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES_

_After months of speculation, New Scotland Yard announced yesterday that their investigation into the Sherlock Holmes scandal has been closed, with no evidence showing that Holmes had any prior or nefarious involvement in the crimes he supposedly solved._

_Holmes committed suicide three months ago after declaring himself to be a fraud, in response to accusations that he had hired actor Richard Brook to pose as James Moriarty. According to the claim Moriarty would commit crimes per Holmes’s directions, which Holmes would later solve, thereby increasing his popularity and inflating his ego. Despite a strong internet presence, Brook remains an unknown figure in the story, and has disappeared without a MORE ON PAGE 8C_

John folded the clipping and put it back in his pocket. He remembered the article – more of an editorial, really, speculation on his relationship with Sherlock, on what the police investigation meant in the greater scheme of things, and on the nature of truth and lies. Nothing he hadn't turned over in his mind a thousand times in the middle of the night, staring at the ceiling while lying in the center of the bed he’d once shared with Sherlock. The only curious thing was that the article was nearly two years old…why would it be in Moran’s house? 

John clutched his mobile and pressed his forehead to the glass of the train. He watched the houses fly by, and tried to stop thinking of anything at all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit earlier than usual because I have a crazy busy (but hopefully not eventful) morning today. Don’t think this is me wanting to put you all out of your misery or anything; lots more misery to come. The “lullaby” Sherlock plays on the violin is “He Plays the Violin” from the musical _1776_ , music and lyrics by Sherman Edwards. Not exactly a lullaby, but normal lullabies are boring. And strangely disturbing, actually. (My son gets a mix of Beatles and Broadway musicals, too.)

Emily’s bed showed no signs of struggle. The covers were neatly folded back, and Elfin was tucked under the pillow, where Emily would stuff him in the midst of sleep. The window was closed, but not locked. It looked like the room of an absent child, and not a kidnapped one, so perfectly calm and normal that Sherlock didn't even want to examine it for the clues he knew were staring him in the face. 

"Sherlock." 

The wardrobe door was open, but that was John, who had come upstairs to wake her, and finding her not in her bed, had proceeded to look for her. He'd spread the toys across the carpet, trying to find her in every nook and cranny, no matter how small. He'd shoved the clothes hanging in the wardrobe, knocking some of them off their hangers. He'd even looked in the dresser drawers, leaving them cockeyed and hanging, but Emily hadn't hidden herself in any of them. 

"Sherlock." 

And then he'd shouted, Emily's name and then Sherlock's, and by the time Sherlock had reached the top of the stairs, every horrible thought had flown through his mind - _Emily is not breathing, Emily is bleeding out on the floor, Emily is dead_. It was only when he saw the room, and John in the middle of it, that he was struck with the almost reasonable reality that Emily simply was not there. For a moment, Sherlock had been relieved, and then everything had spun wildly out of control, because the truth of it was that Emily Was. Not. There. And this was somehow worse than the rest, and Sherlock wasn't sure why. 

" _Sherlock_." 

Sherlock had thrown open the window. He couldn't remember if it had been locked or not. Idiotic. 

A hand gripped his arm; Sherlock reacted, and nearly ripped Greg Lestrade's arm off. 

"Hey," said Lestrade, and rubbed his wrist. "Go back downstairs. We've got this." 

"No," said Sherlock. "It's Emily's room." 

"I know that, Sherlock. But it's small, and you’re taking up the space we need to look for clues." 

"I'm not leaving you alone in her room," snapped Sherlock. " _I_ can look for clues." 

"You've been standing there for twenty minutes and the only thing you've accomplished is spraining my wrist," said Lestrade testily. "You can't work this case, Sherlock—" 

A half laugh escaped Sherlock's lips. "Case. Emily is a _case_." 

"We'll find her, Sherlock." 

Sherlock shook his head. 

"Stop that," hissed Lestrade, and he gripped Sherlock's shoulders tightly. "Kidnapping is serious and it moves fast. I don't have time to argue with you, Sherlock, not if we want to find Emily and find her safe. You have to let us do our job. So give us the space to work, and go downstairs and sit with John while we do it." 

Sherlock stared at Lestrade, so completely still he might have stopped breathing. After a moment, he nodded, and Lestrade let go of his arms. Sherlock took a breath. 

"Do you need Elfin for anything?" 

"No," said Lestrade, and he leaned over to pluck the stuffed elephant from Emily’s bed. He held it in his hands for a moment, squeezing it tightly, eyes closed in thought. Sherlock thought he might have been composing himself for a moment, and then Lestrade’s eyes blinked open and he handed the toy to Sherlock without a word. Sherlock gave Lestrade a deep look before leaving the room. 

John sat in his armchair downstairs, hands clasped and pressed to his mouth. He stared straight ahead, not moving, barely breathing. Mrs Hudson sat in Sherlock's armchair, a tissue over her mouth and her nose, eyes red and wet. Neither spoke; in fact, Sherlock wasn’t sure if Mrs Hudson or John had said anything from the moment that Lestrade’s team arrived. It was a quiet and perfect picture of grief shared, and for a moment, Sherlock wanted to leave them to it, let them comfort each other because he wasn't entirely sure that he could. A large part of him wanted to be back upstairs, to examine Emily's room for clues, to find the stain or the hair or the _something_ that would give him what he needed to track the person who took her away, to find her before the night was over so that John could move from his stationary stare and Mrs Hudson could stop crying. 

Instead, he knelt by John and tucked Elfin under his arms, next to John's stomach. John unclasped his hands, and laid them on the plush animal, curving around it in a way that was oddly familiar, even to Sherlock. John cradled the elephant in his hands and closed his eyes, breathing deeply, before lifting the toy up to his face, and resuming his previous position, mouth now buried in the soft fabric. 

There were footsteps from the kitchen; Sherlock recognized them and didn't bother to turn from John. 

"There was a glitch with the CCTV," said Mycroft testily. "There are three cameras focused on 221 Baker, two in the front and one in the rear. The front cameras stopped recording at eleven this morning, approximately half an hour before your guests began arriving." 

"And the third?" asked Sherlock quietly. 

"Recording, but the footage was subject to tampering. We are attempting to retrieve the original recording." 

"At what point—" 

"Approximately 2:30 in the afternoon." 

"Emily went down at 2pm," said John quietly, and covered his eyes with his hand. "They were waiting for her." 

"Moran was waiting for her," Sherlock corrected him. 

"Moran is dead," said Mycroft. 

"You'll forgive me for not believing you right now," said Sherlock coolly. 

"Sherlock—" 

"Who else would want to kidnap my daughter, Mycroft?" demanded Sherlock. "There's no one else left in Moriarty's syndicate _but_ Moran." 

"Spaulding. Blackwood. Clay," said John tonelessly. 

“Not Moriarty’s men.” 

"But they all have reason to hate you." 

"And they're all incarcerated," said Sherlock, but he glanced at Mycroft, suddenly uncertain. 

Mycroft's nod was barely noticeable. "I would have been informed otherwise," he said. 

"Moran is dead, Sherlock," continued John. 

"But—" 

"You said you'd give me today," said John, and his tone was fierce suddenly. "He's _dead_. It's not Moran." 

"Moran is the only logical choice—" 

" _Then there isn't any logical choice_!" shouted John, and exhaled into the silence that followed his outburst. "Moran is dead. Your brother gave you every last bit of proof, and I know - _I know_ it's hard to believe it, given everything that we've seen and done, but I'm telling you, it wasn't Moran who took Emily. He couldn't have taken Emily." 

"How can you be so sure?" demanded Sherlock. "The man tried to run you down in the road." 

"Because he wouldn't have hurt a child. I knew him, Sherlock. He could kill a man at two-thousand feet but he was gentle as a lamb with every child he came across. I can't believe that he would have harmed Emily, in any way. For any reason." 

Sherlock lowered his head. "All right. All right." He ran his fingers through his hair. "But if it wasn't Moran—" 

"I don't know," said John, and Sherlock couldn't say anything else. 

"The airports are being monitored," said Mycroft. "As well as every road leading out of London, and every train station. There is not a policeman in the country who is not looking for Emily right now." 

Sherlock nodded, his throat tight. 

"We'll find her," said Mycroft gently. He turned to leave, tucking the umbrella under his arm. Sherlock stared after him. _A glitch in the coverage_ , Mycroft said. _We are attempting_ , he said. 

Sherlock couldn’t watch Mycroft leave the room, but he listened to his brother’s footsteps out in the hall, and automatically counted as they descended the stairs. 

There was a pause on the landing. A long one, much too long to simply be Mycroft turning. Sherlock glanced out the open door, and saw the shadow of his brother, a silhouette against the window. He was hunched over, his head bowed, and the umbrella hung loosely from his fingers. 

And then Mycroft straightened, and continued down, his footsteps echoing in the hall. 

Sherlock crossed to the stairs and looked up. He could just see inside Emily's room, and hear the movements of the officers. Dusting for prints, scanning the walls with a black light, examining for loose evidence of hairs or dandruff or anything that could be submitted for DNA analysis. His palms itched to be upstairs with them, but he didn't want to see them crawling over Emily's furniture, Emily's toys, Emily's clothes, and so he turned to the window and touched his violin instead. 

"Play," said John suddenly. "I can't stand the silence. Play something." 

Sherlock picked up the violin gingerly, as if his fingers might break from the weight of it. He settled it under his chin, and set the bow against the strings, but couldn't continue. 

Emily. Sherlock’s mind was whirling so quickly that everything was white noise around the small and still memory of Emily, the silk of her curls beneath his hand when he’d put her down for her nap. He tapped the bow once against the strings, and began to play. 

_He plays the violin; he tucks it right under his chin._

He’d always thought it a little odd, that Emily’s song wasn’t a traditional lullaby, but it was Emily's and it suited her. He would have rather the first thing he played for her be something classical, or at least something he’d written for her, but playing her lullaby had seemed right at the time, and now, John dropped his face down so that it was covered by his clenched hands and the stuffed elephant. 

_And he bows...oh he bows...for he knows...yes he knows...._

Footsteps on the stairs; Sherlock dropped the bow and turned to Lestrade, who looked grim as the rest of the team filed quietly out of the flat. 

"All right," said Lestrade. "I think we're done upstairs. Normally we'd leave a team here to monitor the telephone lines, but your brother assures me that those have been in place for years already, and that we'll be given access to whatever comes through." 

John huffed quietly from his chair with a lack of surprise. 

"The only thing we can do now is to wait," continued Lestrade. 

"I have enemies," said Sherlock. 

"I know," said Lestrade gently. "And I've got the blokes back at the Yard combing through every case you've ever worked on to locate those involved." 

"Not every case was through you—" 

"My notes," said John, lifting his head. "If they'll help?" 

"Yeah, sure," said Lestrade, but it was an indulgent response, one given to provide comfort more than anything else. John rose and went into the bedroom anyway. 

"I'm coming with you," said Sherlock as soon as John had left the room. 

"No," said Lestrade. 

"I can help. You need me on this case." 

"No, Sherlock. It's too close to home for you." 

"You'll never find her—" 

"I can't let you on this case, Sherlock," said Lestrade, more forcefully now. "Christ, _I_ shouldn't even be on this case. I had to pull every string I've got and half of Dimmock's to even be let in the same room as Emily's kidnapping so I don't have any strings left to pull for you, and even if I did, I wouldn't, because you're _her father_. Whoever took Emily wasn't taking Emily for the sake of Emily - they were taking her to get to _you_ , and so your job is to not be involved. I'm sorry. We'll work as hard as we can, we'll find Emily, but we're going to do it without your help." 

"She's. My. _Daughter_!" said Sherlock, and it ended in a shout that shook him to the bones. 

"Sherlock," said John from the doorway, where he held a box in his arms. The shock was etched into his face, around his eyes, and Sherlock stared at him for a long moment before turning away and resting his head against the window. 

He heard Lestrade cross the room to John, the shuffle as the box of notes changed hands. "I'm sorry," he heard Lestrade say. "We'll find her, John." 

"Thanks, Greg," John replied. "I – thanks." 

"Yeah, mate," said Lestrade, and there was the sound of slapping - hands against backs, hugs and comfort. A gentle touch on Sherlock’s back; Mrs Hudson, who might have whispered something to him, but Sherlock didn’t hear it. Then she and Lestrade left, closing the door behind them, and Sherlock and John were alone. 

The flat was quiet and still, and the windowpane was cold against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock couldn't remember the last time he and John had been alone in 221B. Years, easily. He wondered, briefly, what they'd talked about. None of it would be appropriate now, and Sherlock didn’t even want to try. 

He’d wanted this. Just an hour or so before, he’d wanted time with John, alone, the two of them, the way it had been before the Fall. He’d wished it, and it had happened, and Sherlock felt sick. 

Sherlock pushed away from the window and turned to the stairs, avoiding John's gaze. He took the steps two at a time. 

"Sherlock—" 

Sherlock ignored him, and burst into Emily's room. The coppers had cleaned it of the fingerprinting dust, but otherwise left it intact. Sherlock looked around at the familiar bed, chair, and shelves, scanning for clues. 

John's steps up the stairs were slower, but by the time he reached the doorway, Sherlock had already started working. 

"She was asleep," Sherlock began. "I put her in her bed, with Elfin. She woke briefly, but fell back asleep quickly. I lowered her curtains and left the room, closed the door." 

"All the way?" John's voice was steady, but hoarse, as though he tried to talk through a knot in his throat. Sherlock knew the feeling all too well. 

"Yes. We were downstairs, talking." 

"I remember." 

"Mycroft says the footage shows tampering around half an hour later. I think we can assume the kidnapper was responsible for both the non-recording cameras and the tampering, which means he wouldn't have made a move until then." 

"How'd he get in?" asked John. "The window was locked." 

Sherlock scanned the room. The single window at the back of the room, the wardrobe barely big enough for a small child, the bed... 

Sherlock dropped to the ground, and peered under the bed. 

"Do you remember—" he began, but John filled it in. 

"He was already here." 

"Yes. He would have entered after the cameras on the front doors had stopped recording. Anyone watching would assume he was with the party, and we were too distracted to notice anything amiss." 

Sherlock reached under the bed, and found what he was looking for wedged between the mattress and the support beams. He got to his knees and showed John the hair in his hand. 

“Bloody hell,” whispered John. “I’ll get a bag.” 

John ran down the stairs, and Sherlock could hear him slam doors and drawers in the kitchen. Sherlock stared at the dark hair. “It could be my own,” he said to the empty room. “It could be Emily’s. It could be anyone’s.” 

John thundered back up the stairs, carrying the entire box of plastic sandwich bags. His hands shook as he opened one. “It’s not just anyone’s.” 

“John – it’s a hair. We can’t know.” 

“Shut up,” said John, and clutched the bag with the hair tightly in his fist. 

“He was under the bed,” said Sherlock, staring at Emily’s bed. “During the party, he must have slipped in and come upstairs. He was here when I put her down. He waited for her to fall asleep, to make sure we weren’t coming back up. Maybe he waited for a signal that the cameras were disabled, or there was a set time. He slipped out from under the bed – but how did he take her out without waking her?” 

Sherlock leaned over Emily’s bed, and sniffed the pillow, the sheets, and then hastily pulled back the rest of the blankets. He ripped them from the mattress and shook – and the small cloth fluttered to the ground. 

He fell on it, dropping the blankets and sheets in a pile, and sniffed it, only to come away coughing. “Chloroform,” he choked, and John quickly bagged it while Sherlock coughed. 

“He had the cloth; he put it over her nose and mouth to make sure she’d stay out.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“She probably didn’t even know he was there, that anything was wrong. She wouldn’t have woken up.” 

“Sherlock.” 

“It’s the only way she could have left without Elfin.” 

“ _Shut up_ ,” said John, his voice strained, and Sherlock fell silent, breathing heavily. But his mind was whirling, he couldn’t stop. 

Sherlock sprang to his feet, and walked to the window. “He wouldn’t have been able to go down the stairs without us seeing, so he must have used the window. He would have been unable to leave through 221 without Mrs Hudson hearing, but…” Sherlock threw open the window and leaned outside. “Yes. Holes, corresponding with grappling hooks.” 

“Grappling hooks?” 

“He must have used some kind of tie-line to move between Emily’s room and another location,” said Sherlock. “And made his escape from another house. It’s cold out, she wasn’t wearing a coat. All her blankets are here, so he must have been prepared, or maybe he met someone. Walk a few blocks to the Tube…or catch a cab. No one would notice a little girl sleeping on someone’s shoulder – but they might if she wasn’t wearing a coat, so how would she go unnoticed – unless they had her disguised, or hidden. Under something. In something.” 

Sherlock began to shake. 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was pained. 

“In a bag,” mumbled Sherlock. “They stuffed her in a bag to carry her out.” 

John made a muffled noise, but Sherlock was trying to remember how to breathe. 

“She said she liked the balloons,” Sherlock said, struggling to hold onto something. “When I put her down. She said she liked the balloons.” 

Sherlock was only dimly aware when John left the room a moment later. He stared out the window, trying not to think about what had happened in the room, his daughter unconscious while he and John were downstairs talking about – what had they been talking about? Sherlock couldn’t even remember. 

“Sherlock!” shouted John. 

Sherlock inhaled sharply and left Emily’s room. He found John in the sitting room, loading the gun that was normally kept in their bedroom wardrobe. 

“John?” 

“Fuck Lestrade,” said John, and he didn’t sound calm. “We’re going to find Emily, and then I’m going to kill whoever put her in a bag and carried her out of here.” 

Sherlock couldn’t quite grasp what he saw. John was in pain, John was wrecked, he’d thought John was catatonic with fear and sorrow – but this, John standing in the center of the flat, casually loading his gun and a hard, angry expression on his face – this was a side of John Sherlock hadn’t seen before, or at least not in a very long time. “John—” 

John shoved the gun in the back of his jeans. His eyes were hard. “She’s my daughter, too, Sherlock. And somewhere, she’s waking up right now and she doesn’t have me, or you, or Elfin, and she’s scared and she’s hungry and she’s crying, and whoever took her doesn’t know that she likes a cup of milk and a cuddle when she wakes up from a nap, and they don’t know that her favorite food is fish fingers and mayo, and they won’t read to her about hippos, and do you know what happens to little girls who are kidnapped, Sherlock? Do you want me to spell it out for you? Because I don’t care if she was taken to get to you – she’s _my daughter_ , and she needs me and she needs you, and by God if you don’t help me find the sodding bastard who took her away, I’ll—” 

John’s voice caught in his throat, and Sherlock nodded. 

“Nothing is going to happen to her,” he said. 

“Moriarty,” said John quietly. “He said he’d burn the heart out of you, Sherlock.” 

“I know.” 

“It’s my heart burning, Sherlock. Is yours?” 

Sherlock took two steps and wrapped John in his arms. John sank into him, just a little, and Sherlock felt him choke back the sob. Sherlock kissed John’s head, hard, and John looked up and grabbed Sherlock’s face between his hands and kissed him, pressing his lips against Sherlock’s. His tongue swept against Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock opened his mouth without a second thought, falling completely under John’s insistence. The kiss was quick and brutal, tasted of salt and blood, and John lead the way, every sweep of his tongue and every drag of his lips a claim and a reminder. When John let Sherlock go, his kept his hand on the back of Sherlock’s head and pressed his forehead to Sherlock’s. 

“I don’t know where to go,” said Sherlock, unable to open his eyes. 

“The CCTV footage,” said John. “Why would two cameras be turned off, and not the third? If you’re clever enough to destroy two, why wouldn’t you destroy three?” 

“Of course,” whispered Sherlock, and he began, incongruously, to smile. “I’ll find them,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll find them, and I’ll get Emily back. _I promise_.” 

“No,” said John, determined. “ _We’ll_ find them.”


	4. Chapter 4

Mrs Hudson was not surprised that Sherlock and John went out. “Of course, I won’t leave the flat,” she promised, her eyes still red. “If the phone rings—” 

“Answer it,” said Sherlock. “Don’t worry about trying to keep them on the line; they’ll have stopwatches and they’re too smart to be caught by the traces. Just…” 

Sherlock struggled, trying to think of what Mrs Hudson should do, if the kidnapper rang. He glanced at John, who stared resolutely back, his face impassive and hard. 

“Tell Emily we love her,” said John. “That we’re coming to get her. Sing to her. If she asks about Elfin, tell her that you’re keeping him safe.” 

Mrs Hudson nodded. “Of course, yes.” 

The wind hadn’t let up, and it bit at Sherlock’s cheeks and blew his hair around. John stayed at his elbow and pulled the door shut on 221. Sherlock glanced up and down the road, eyes taking in every detail. He knew exactly where the cameras were placed, and it was easy enough to determine that their little red lights were not on, indicating a failure in the system. 

“There, and there,” said Sherlock, pointing them out to John. “One across the street, a long view, and one here, for a closer look.” 

“Mycroft hasn’t fixed them yet,” said John, and Sherlock shook his head. 

“The fault may not be with the cameras, but with the recordings or the lines.” 

He set off toward the north, and John walked briskly at his side. It was a few minutes’ walk around Park and to Glenworth Street. Just north of the entrance to Siddons Lane was the small indention that led to the series of private gardens between the houses on Baker and Siddons. Glenworth was deserted and quiet, but there was scaffolding set up at the rear of the closest house, and Sherlock scaled up, peering over the walls in the direction of 221 Baker. 

John spotted it first. “There,” he said, pointing up at the camera – the only one in the indention, directed in such a way that it could take the entire sweep of the alley. “Too far away to be of much good.” 

“I suspect it has a zooming capability,” said Sherlock. 

“The light’s on,” said John. “It’s working.” 

“Small favors,” said Sherlock dryly, and turning away from the camera, he began to climb again, before hopping onto the wall, holding his arms out for balance. 

“Sherlock,” hissed John. “What the bloody hell?” 

“I need to see the rigging.” 

“You couldn’t have seen that from the house?” John reached up and began to climb after him. “You aren’t honestly going to hop across the gardens, are you?” 

“That was my intention, of course.” 

“There’s a dozen houses between Glenworth and 221!” 

“All the more reason to hurry, John.” 

John cursed, and balanced on the wall. Most of the gardens featured sheds or verandas, or some other kind of structure which allowed Sherlock to hop across, and those that didn’t, he jumped lightly to the ground and clambered up the other side. Sherlock could hear John behind him, cursing all the way, and when he jumped, he tried to keep most of the landing on his good leg, but all the same, by the time they reached 223, he was already feeling the stiffness creep in. 

Instead of making the leap into 221’s garden, however, Sherlock moved a bench and stood on it, to get a better look at the brick wall. John joined him, a faint sheen of sweat on his brow, and a bit out of breath from the exertion of following over walls and through gardens. 

“We’re too old for this,” grumbled John. 

“The kidnapper didn’t escape this way,” said Sherlock. “Entirely too difficult carrying a 30-pound duffel bag or the gear he’d need to scale down from Emily’s bedroom window. He would have needed another window to leave.” 

“Or a door,” said John, and ran his fingers along the wall. He peered over the wall. “Mrs Hudson’s bench isn’t usually here – it’s over on the other side.” 

“Of course,” said Sherlock, and hopped back down again to scan the ground. He stopped just near the bins, and stared at the ground for a long moment before his outstretched hand traced a boxy outline on the ground. 

“Here,” he said softly. “There was a duffel placed just here, scraped against the ground a little, you can see the shift in the dirt. He would have put her down for a moment – why? Was she too heavy? Was he sending a message to someone?” Sherlock scanned the ground. “Ah – he wasn’t alone. Too much scuffling in this dust to be only one person.” 

“Footprints?” 

“Not on concrete.” 

“Then they could belong to anyone.” 

“Yes, but they’re centered around the bag, and….yes, they went over the wall here.” Sherlock scaled the wall, and peered on the other side. “Aha! John, how did we miss this? There’s a door here for the Siddons Lane houses. They must have exited that way, the better to be unnoticed by anyone on Baker Street.” 

“Good,” said John, and Sherlock glanced at him. “If there were two of them, then he wouldn’t have dropped Emmy—the bag from the window. He would have been careful, lowered her down.” 

“Yes, very likely,” said Sherlock, not quite seeing John’s logic, and frowned when John suddenly doubled over. “John. _John_.” 

John hands were squeezing his knees, and his mouth was open and gasping, a bit like he’d just gone into shock. “Fine, I’m fine,” said John through gritted teeth. His entire body shook, and Sherlock tried to put an arm around him, but John shrugged it off. “Leave it.” 

Sherlock stepped back, still holding his arm aloft for a moment before letting it drop to his side. Something was not quite right in the way John was trying to catch his breath. John slowly pushed himself back up again. “John.” 

“I’m fine, just…” John shook his head. “There were two of them, and they had Emily in a duffel bag and headed out onto Siddons. Not many cabs on Glenworth, but enough on Melcombe or Park – unless they had a driver waiting for them.” 

“They would have wanted to get off the roads immediately,” said Sherlock. It took too long to concentrate; half of him wanted to sit John down on Mrs Hudson’s bench, to hold him tightly until John felt better – or at least admitted he didn’t feel well. But John was watching him, expecting him to continue, so he did, struggling to keep up with the deductions that flew of their own accord. “Emily’s nap schedule has been erratic the last few months; they had no way of knowing when we would think to check on her, so it was vital to get away quickly.” 

Sherlock took a few steps back from the wall, and jumped, scaling it easily. He landed on the other side, and went to the door leading to the Siddons Lane house, trusting that John would follow. The door led to a nondescript hall, at the end of which was the front door, and the two men walked grimly through, without seeing anyone who might stop them. Siddons Lane was equally quiet, and just as they reached Melcombe, a black car pulled up to the kerb. 

“Ah,” said Sherlock. “The camera at the back of Baker Street is operational for now, at least.” 

“Mycroft,” said John, bitterly. 

“Of course.” 

The back door opened, and a familiar woman stepped out – for once, not on her Blackberry. She stepped to the side, and waited, watching them. 

“And what name is it today?” asked Sherlock, unable to keep the derision from his voice. 

But the woman didn’t look away. “Emma,” she said quietly, and Sherlock heard John’s quick intake of breath beside him. Sherlock locked his gaze with hers, and gave a brief nod. 

“You’ll forgive me if we ask you to not ride in back with us,” he said. “And if you don’t forgive me, then you’ll still not ride in the back.” 

“Of course,” said Emma, and waited until they had both settled in before shutting the door and getting into the front seat with the driver. 

John exhaled as the car pulled away. “She—” 

“Her name,” said Sherlock, and he reached for John’s hand. It was warm and solid and when John wrapped his fingers around his own, he breathed a sigh of relief. “Her own.” 

“Ah,” said John, and looked out the window. 

* 

The CCTV offices were located on the outskirts of London, in a non-descript brick building that might have been a mental institution or an extremely down-on-its-luck boarding school. Inside, Emma led them down the empty corridors, their footsteps echoing, down a stairwell into the basement, and finally into a dark room, where cubicles lined with monitors dotted the walls like honeycombs. Each honeycomb was manned by someone who never looked away from the monitors, where the screens followed an individual or a vehicle or another target, tracking them from camera to camera across the city. 

"Don't bother," said Emma, and Sherlock glanced at her sharply. "You want to know who they're tracking - I'm saying don't bother. They're not important." 

"If the government is tracking them, they're important," said Sherlock. 

"Not to you," said Emma firmly. "Your station is over here." 

"My station?" echoed Sherlock, but he followed Emma to a corner honeycomb, where it quickly became obvious what Emma meant by "his station." Four screens showed images surrounding 221 Baker Street, including the back gardens, now empty. Two screens were blank - presumably belonging to the two non-working cameras normally focused on the front door of 221. In addition, there were photographs and maps tacked to the walls of the honeycomb, and Sherlock saw himself and John, Mrs Hudson, and maps marking their common routes to John's clinic, Emily's nursery, and New Scotland Yard. 

In the corner was a photograph of Emily. Sherlock recognized it as one taken only a few weeks previously, sitting on the staircase in 221, grinning happily at the camera. Mycroft had asked for it specially. Sherlock had thought him sentimental and called him so. Mycroft had ignored the jibe, and now, Sherlock had to work not to hate him. 

Two technicians were huddled at the honeycomb, one crouched beneath the desk, fiddling with a torch and a set of screwdrivers; the other watching the screen and typing on the keyboard. The technicians had clearly been working for some time, if the empty coffee cups and crumpled serviettes were any indication. 

"—didn't work, try the first one again." 

"If the first didn't work the first time, it's not going to work the third." 

"Yeah, but I reconfigured the metrics, it'll go along a different stream now." 

"Gentlemen," said Emma, and the man under the desk sat up quickly, banging his head on the desktop. He rubbed his head and winced; his companion didn't even blink, and kept typing at the keyboard. 

"Busy, go away," said the seated technician. 

"Wrong answer," said Emma pleasantly. 

The technician on the floor poked his head out and saw Sherlock and John standing behind Emma. His eyes widened, and he jabbed his companion's leg with his elbow. "Uh, Rich..." 

"Don't interrupt me, this is a tricky bit of code and if I lose my place I'll have to start over again." 

Emma was about to say something, but John put a hand on her arm. Sherlock watched as Emma's face went from "How Dare You Touch Me" to "Yes Dr Watson Sir" in half a second, once she caught the dark look in John's eyes. He stifled a laugh, and waited for Rich to finish his typing, at which point he spoke. 

"I trust the code will allow us to view the missing CCTV footage?" 

"In a manner of speaking," said Rich, turning in his chair, and stopped mid-turn when he laid eyes on Sherlock. "Ah - I - you're not as tall as I thought you'd be." 

John snorted softly behind him. 

"I tried to tell you," said the man on the ground. 

Rich recovered quickly. "The footage is saved digitally, and there's four different files that are saved - video, photographic montage, and a backup of both. They're all encrypted, and they're all saved in three different locations each, so that if one system fails, you'll at least have backup in other locations. If one type of file fails, you have the others to fill in." 

"What went wrong?" 

"The transmission itself. There's a second layer of encryption on the file - when we try to view anything from that camera taken between the hour of 2.30 and 3.30, we get a 404." 

"File not found," said John. 

"Exactly." 

"But the file is there." 

"Absolutely. We can see it, we can move it, we can copy it. We just can't open it." 

"Why the hardware modifications, if the problem is a software issue?" asked John. 

"Another failsafe," said the man on the ground. "Each pod has about ten different servers available, but only three work at any given time, unless you need additional cameras on your tail. And there's gremlins in the system - any system will have them, don't tell me they don't - so I've been rotating the servers, because they're not performing at peak output." 

"The server grinds to a halt when we try to open the file," explained Rich. "Winston here is overriding the failsafe, so we're running off of six servers instead of three." 

"That would help?" asked John. 

"It should at least allow the program to run faster, but it's not working," said Winston. "Something in the file itself is slowing down the process." 

"Where's the file?" asked Sherlock. 

Rich hit a few keys on the keyboard, and one of the blank screens popped to life, showing a list of files, each named with a series of numbers and letters. Sherlock scanned the screen, and then pointed. 

"That one," he said. 

"Yeah, that's the one," said Rich, impressed. "How'd you know?" 

"NW1, camera 6, south, the date, and the time," said Sherlock, pointing to the corresponding letters and numbers in turn. "Achingly simple, even John could have seen that." 

"Thanks, love," said John. 

"What program do you use to open the files?" 

"Any video player works. The movie versions are .avi files." 

"Can you open them another way?" asked John. 

Rich frowned. "What do you mean?" 

"I accidentally opened a photo file in Notepad once," said John. "It was random symbols, but I could read it - at least, I could see something was there." 

Rich hit a few buttons on the keyboard, and after a moment, a window popped open, filled with nonsense symbols and blank spaces. 

"Do a search," said Sherlock. "Look for my name." 

It worked, almost immediately. "Sodding hell," breathed Rich. 

Sherlock, darling, it's been such a long time. You're late. 

"Late," murmured Sherlock, staring at the line. "I'm late." 

"What does he mean, such a long time?" asked Emma. 

"What does he mean, darling?" asked John, a bit more testily. 

"Obviously someone who's danced with me before, keep up, Emma," said Sherlock, and then glanced at John, who was glaring at him. "But I have never in my entire life met anyone who called me 'darling'." 

"Not and left them alive to tell the tale, anyway," said John dryly. 

Sherlock studied the screen for another moment. "Who has editing access to these files? Other than anyone in this room and my brother?" 

"No one," said Emma. "Not even your brother." 

"We can't edit them, either," said Rich. 

"But you can copy them. Can you edit the copies?" 

"No - that is, we could edit, but we can't save the edits. The save feature is disabled on the system, so anything we tried to do would be lost when we powered down." 

"Have you tried that?" asked Sherlock. Rich and Winston glanced at each other. 

"Ah..." 

"Someone has played with these files," said Sherlock. "If there's no save function, powering down will erase whatever changes were made." 

"There could be more on that file," said Emma. 

"There isn't. The message is a taunt, not a clue. The clue is the video, and we need to see the video. Power down the system!" 

Emma hit a button on her Blackberry and a moment later, spoke into it. "Yes. Authorization 45-N-23-18. Immediately. Thirty second rotation." 

No sooner had she stopped speaking than the room was plunged into darkness. 

There was the faint popping sound that accompanied a dozen lights instantly blinking out, as well as the expected shrieks and gasps from those not expecting it. Sherlock didn't make a sound, but he heard John's quick intake of breath next to him, and he reached out for his omega's hand, finding it fisted in the darkness, pressed hard against his thigh. Sherlock wrapped his long fingers around John's fist, which didn't loosen, and held tightly. 

"You know," said Winston, from somewhere beneath the desk. "I was scared of the dark when I was a kid." 

"Shouldn't there be emergency lights?" asked Rich. 

"How long will it take to power back up?" asked Sherlock, painfully aware of John’s short breaths beside him, and the hardness of his fist beneath his hand. 

“Lights in thirty seconds, five minutes for the rest.” 

Sherlock leaned toward John, and pressed his face into the crook of John’s neck. John was still, completely still, breathing shallowly, and there was a faint sheen of sweat on his skin. Sherlock breathed in the scent of him, and then lifted his mouth to John’s ear. 

“Are you all right?” Sherlock asked softly, and felt John’s quick, sharp nod. Sherlock frowned. “Liar.” 

John stepped away, just enough so that Sherlock couldn’t feel or hear the intake of breath he knew John would have had, and the lights in the room snapped back on. John’s face was stony and determined, and Sherlock moved back, but did not remove his hand from John’s. 

“Tea,” said Sherlock. “Where is the tea?” 

“Small break room in the back,” said Rich, already fast at work typing on the keyboard, while the monitors in the room blinked and came to life. The room was awash in blue screens. 

“Come along, John,” said Sherlock, and tried to drag the other man with him. His arm nearly ripped out of his socket when John didn’t move. 

“I’m waiting here,” said John, eyes on the monitors. 

“Tea,” said Sherlock firmly. 

“Not thirsty.” 

“Well, I am,” said Sherlock. 

“Then go,” said John, harshly, and he shook Sherlock’s hand off of his. “Just…go.” 

Sherlock’s body trembled for a moment – just one half-violent shiver, and the rush of pheromones flooded Sherlock so quickly that it took him by surprise. There had been times when Sherlock hated being an alpha – having to follow his body and not his brain, but one silver lining was the unique clarity that came with the first flush of a frenzy, the ability to look at everyone and everything and see, utterly perfectly, exactly how they ticked and what they could provide for him. 

Emma, alpha, angrily loyal to Mycroft and so comfortable with her ever-changing roster of names that she half forgot her own some days, and didn’t think about her original identity the rest. 

Rich, beta, boffin, cared only for the search and might have harbored a crush on John but was so used to unrequited crushes that he wouldn’t have acted upon it. And now that he was in John’s actual presence, Rich was growing increasingly more afraid of John by the minute, anyway. 

Winston, not only beta but asexual at that, boffin like Rich but responsible for the photograph of Emily, and he tinkered with the line connections even as the computers worked themselves up, when he ought to have left them well alone lest he electrocute himself. 

And John, who was looking at him now, his breath still shallow, his eyes wide and dark and filled with a wordless _Please_ that meant so many different things. Come, go, stay, leave, help, ignore. 

“I’ll bring you a cup,” said Sherlock, and found the small table at the back of the room, the electric kettle still warm. His hands shook as he poured the hot water over the tea bags, added the milk and sugar. When he turned back, half the monitors in the room were already showing their targets. At least one of the cameras focused on Baker Street was online again, and he handed John the cup of tea, relieved that the man took it. 

“I added sugar,” said Sherlock. 

“I don’t—” began John, and took a sip like a prayer. His eyes closed. “Thank you.” 

“We’re back,” said Rich, and with a few keystrokes, he set the video to play. 

The video was grainy in the way that all CCTV footage was grainy, and the back gardens behind 221 Baker could have been any row of gardens in the city. The four men and Emma watched in silence as nothing happened at first, the clock in the corner ticking away the minutes from 1430 on. 

At 1435, a figure appeared - not from 221, but from 223, climbing out of the window and sitting precariously on the wide windowsill. 

"Jane's room," said John, and a moment later, they watched as the figure reached back in and pulled out a large rag doll, which moved faintly and unsteadily, as if drugged. 

"Jane," said Sherlock, low. 

"The nanny," said Emmy, checking. 

"She was supposed to go to her parents' after the party," said John. "We wouldn't have noticed her absence until Monday." 

The man hoisted Jane over his shoulder and dropped lightly to the ground, where he sat her against the wall, before turning to face 221. 

Every inch of Sherlock screamed to turn away. He felt John tense next to him, and knew he felt the same. They both watched in stony silence as Emily's window opened, and the grappling hooks fixed to the windowsill. The ropes were thrown into the garden of 223, where the man there caught them. He tied the ropes to the duffel bag handles, and slowly, carefully, the second man let it slide down the ropes for the man below to catch. When the bag was down, on the ground, and safe, the second man made his descent. 

Jane was beginning to wake, moving around a little, scrabbling on the ground. The men lifted her to her feet, and it looked as if they had a conversation with her, while Jane shook her head wildly, and tried to push away. 

She stopped, when the second man reached over to the duffel bag and opened it to show her the contents, blocked from the camera's view. Jane slumped against them, giving up. One man slung her over his shoulder to carry her over the wall to 225 and the escape to Siddons Lane, and while she hung at his back, her fingers clenched and relaxed in turn, over and over. 

By 1453, it was over, and the gardens were empty again. 

"Thank God," said John quietly. "Jane is with her." 

"Yes," said Sherlock, and he reached for John's hand. This time, John took it, held it tightly, and did not let go. 

"Do you need me to play it again?" asked Rich quietly. 

"No," said John. 

"Yes," said Sherlock, and leaned in to the monitor. "But skip the first part. I want to see what happens after Jane stands up." 

"Zoom in on her hands," said Emma, and Sherlock turned to give her an approving half-smile. 

"I see why my brother keeps you on." 

"No, you don't," said Emma, and the video was easier to watch a second time, when they could not see the duffel bag waiting on the ground. Jane's hands flashed, and Sherlock and Emma both copied the motions. 

"Not letters, not numbers," muttered Sherlock, and frowned. "Words?" 

"Code," said Emma, but Sherlock shook his head. 

"She's drugged with something, look at how she's staggering when she walks. She wouldn't have been able to devise a code and implement it. And we never agreed on one beforehand." 

John stared at the screen. "Sign language." 

"Yes," said Sherlock shortly, and his hand still flexed, trying to copy what Jane told them. "We need to examine her flat. If there's a code, Jane may have left the key there." 

Emma glanced at her Blackberry. "Let's go." 

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Let's? Doesn't Mycroft need you to fetch his tea and biscuits?" 

Emma fixed him a hard glare. "No." 

"Glad to see he’s back on the diet, then." 

"Sherlock," said John, a warning, and Sherlock straightened, and glanced at the other monitors, which were already working to focus in on the faces of the two men in the gardens. 

"It'll take a few hours, but we'll work on getting matches," said Rich. 

"Don't be ridiculous, they're not going to show their faces if there's any chance that the Met would have _records_ of them," said Sherlock impatiently. "Can't you follow to see where they went after leaving Baker Street?" 

"Yes, once I get this program running in the background. It takes concentration to follow someone; the computer does the matching work for me, once I give it a face." Rich clicked at the mouse furiously. "I'll let you know when I've got a match and a location, but don't expect anything for at least an hour." 

"Good," said Sherlock, and he was already half out of the room before John could nod, and thank them. 

"You were rude," John told him as they left the building, Emma working at her Blackberry. "They're trying to help." 

"It's their job," said Sherlock. "And I'm not thanking them until they do something worth thanking them _for_." 

"They're doing their best, Sherlock." 

Sherlock stopped mid stride and spun on John. "Their _best_ allowed our daughter to be taken a full hour and twenty minutes before we knew she was gone," Sherlock hissed at him. "By the time you went up to wake her, thinking she was safe in her bed with her arms wrapped around Elfin, they were probably already taking her out of the duffel and throwing her into a locked room—" 

That John hit him was not a surprise. That there was as much force in it _was_ , and should not have been - John had hit him before, after all. 

Emma looked up from her Blackberry. "Can we continue this in the car? Rush hour tends to make moving through traffic somewhat tricky." 

"Don't," said John to Sherlock. "Don't – just don't. Okay? She's my daughter. Don't." 

Sherlock rubbed his jaw. "She's my daughter, too." 

"She was my daughter long before she was yours," said John. "And if I hear you blame _anyone_ but the men who took her away—" John shook his head, unable to continue. He shoved his hands in his coat pockets and continued down the corridor. After a moment, Emma followed him, with a quick glance at Sherlock, who brought up the rear. 

Traffic, as Emma predicted, was a nightmare, filled with people trying to get into the city for a little Saturday night fun. John sat next to Sherlock, his hands still fisted and resting on his thighs. There was enough space between them for someone to sit, but Sherlock didn't dare move closer. He put his hand in the space between, and left it there, just in case. 

John didn't move, didn't blink, didn't even make any indication that he knew the hand was there. He stared straight ahead, jaw tight. 

The car slowed to a halt as it approached the city center. Sherlock flexed his hand, and glanced at the door, wondering if it would be faster to go by foot. He was nearly done with the calculations when John spoke. 

"We were at the zoo. She loved the penguins, would watch them for hours, press her hands and nose against the glass and giggle and talk to them. Didn't always make a lot of sense, she babbled a lot when she was tiny. But I suppose it all made sense to her, she'd turn to me and babble and it would end on a question, and somehow I had to know what she was saying, and respond. And every so often, I'd say something that clearly didn't match with what she thought she had said, and she'd give me this...this _look_ , and it was the same look you gave me when you were exasperated or if you thought I was being particularly dim." 

"I never thought—" 

"You did. Not always. Not often. But you did. I don't _care_ , I know I'm not as smart as you. No one is. I don't think you even realized that you'd give me that look, I think it was habit formed over the years before we met. And seeing it on her face..." John sighed. "She'd go over it, very carefully, and those penguins could have bigger ratings than EastEnders, the stories she concocted about them, if I'd only been able to interpret what she told me." 

Sherlock pressed his hand flat against the leather of the seat. 

"You would have known what she was saying." 

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly." 

"Yes," said John. 

Sherlock stared out the window. "She told you. Not me." 

"Well, I was there," said John, and there was no venom in the statement. 

"Exactly," said Sherlock, and he felt the warmth of John's hand cover his own, their fingers twining together. 

* 

Jane's flat was small, two rooms at the back of 223. Sherlock hadn't seen it since they had signed the paperwork leasing it for her; John had been once or twice, and when he saw the mess, he inhaled sharply. 

"A struggle," said Sherlock, and he stepped inside. 

"We should call Greg," said John. "This is part of the crime scene." 

"Done. He's on his way," said Emma behind them. 

"Sherlock," said John, as Sherlock walked into the flat. "Don't touch—" 

"I'll be careful." 

John slowly followed him in. "We should ring her parents." He shook his head. "I don't know what to say." 

"Hush," said Sherlock, and he frowned, looking around. "A struggle. She came back, dropped her keys on the table near the door. Her overnight bag was packed, she only needed to retrieve it to catch her train. Look, it's there next to the chair, she was ready to go in a moment. Someone was waiting, knew she wasn't going to come in all the way - clever, then - and pulled her in. She tried to get away - knocked over the lamp. How'd he subdue her?" 

Sherlock dropped to the ground, and sniffed. "Ah. Injection. Andomenothyl. He had trouble sticking her, and some splashed on the ground first. It would have taken a few minutes to knock her out, though...so he dropped her on the ground here." 

Sherlock checked under the sofa, frowned, and laid on his back, still looking around him. "Depending on the dose, she would have had a few minutes. What would she have done?" 

"Nothing," said John flatly. "There's nothing she _could_ have done." 

"She sent us a message," said Sherlock. 

"That was later. But just after being attacked? She had no way of knowing this was about Emily. She didn't know what was in the needle. For all she knew, she was about to be raped and murdered in her own flat. She would have wanted to scream, so he probably stayed next to her anyway, keeping his hand over her mouth. She wouldn't have had a chance to do anything. Not then." 

Sherlock nodded slowly, and his mouth quirked as he realized something. "Not giving you that look now, am I?" 

John snorted, and went to look out the window. "Yes, well, you're an alpha. You don't know what real fear is." 

"Alphas feel fear." 

"Not like that," said John, nodding to the sofa. "Why take Jane? I doubt kidnappers think much about the welfare of their victims." 

Sherlock got to his feet and went to check the rest of the flat. "Her bedroom is still neat - they didn't go in here. Someone much larger than Jane was sitting on the sofa - see the indention in the cushions? He had to drag her out of the flat - that was an hour later, and she was already waking up, so whatever he gave her was either not strong enough or just wasn't enough to keep her out." 

"She wouldn't have had time to leave a clue," said John. "Not if she was half out of her mind already." 

"No," said Sherlock, thoughtfully, and he looked around the flat again, frowning. "Why..." 

"What?" 

"There was a struggle," he said slowly. "But...it was fast. She was out within a minute or two. And we never heard a thing. _John_. Close the blinds, quickly. Emma, switch off the lights." 

John dropped the blinds on the window, and with the lights off, the room was plunged into near darkness, except for the words now glowing on the wall, written in luminescent paint, over and over, one after the other, in different sizes and with drips running down the wall. 

_The debt has been repaid._


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Keep your eyes peeled for a Heart one-shot this weekend.

John didn't hear the buzz of his mobile at first - or rather, he did, but he was still too fogged up with sleep to really pay attention to anything that wasn't three-week-old Emily. By the time he did register the rumbling clatter as the phone jittered and danced on the side table next to the bed, Emily was already beginning to stir, and John caught the mobile in his hands, and pressed it to his chest, whispering "Back to sleep back to sleep back to sleep" under his breath, not even as loud as a whisper. He slid out of the bed and tiptoed into the sitting room, settling himself on the far side of the room by the window before daring to look at the screen, wondering who the bloody hell would call at the obnoxious hour of... 

Oh. Ten in the morning. 

John sighed, and connected the call. "Morning, Anna," he said, looking out the window at the overcast, mid-morning sky. 

"I woke you," said Anna Lestrade, clearly distressed. "I'm so sorry. I didn't dare ring the bell." 

John looked down, and saw Anna standing on the pavement, bundled in coat and scarf and hat, a worried and guilty expression on her face. Her hat was bright pink and fuzzy, and John couldn't be sure, but he thought there were stray bits of yarn sticking out of it. He couldn't help but smile. "My fault for being a lazy sod. Nice hat." 

Anna looked up and saw him in the window. Her responding smile was brilliant. She lifted up a bulging cloth bag. "I brought breakfast." 

"You," said John warmly, "are officially my favorite person in the entire world." 

He went to let her in; Anna sighed with pleasure when she reached the warm flat. "Oh, it's lovely in here." 

"Probably too warm." 

"No such thing," said Anna, and she hung her ridiculous hat over her coat and scarf on the hooks by the door. "Emmy's sleeping?" 

"Now," said John dryly. 

"Lovely. I'll just get breakfast started. John, don't take this the wrong way, but why don't you go skip into the shower while I cook?" 

John stared at Anna for a moment, trying to decide whether or not to declare his love on the spot, or just go without saying a word. 

"Go!" said Anna, seeing his indecision, and John went. By the time he emerged, feeling better than he had in days, Anna was already setting the sausages and toast and eggs and tomatoes on the kitchen table. 

"I am utterly useless but dear God, please marry me," said John, before tucking in. 

Anna laughed, and sat down opposite him, her own plate in front of her. "Not useless. I just thought - you probably don't have much chance to eat right now." 

John had to swallow first; he was exhausted, but not uncivilized. "Not quite. I have chances, but no energy to cook anything. The couple times I tried, Emily would wake up in the middle of frying an egg or broiling a chicken breast, and I'd nearly burn down the house." 

Anna frowned. "What are you eating, then?" 

"Marmite sandwiches, mostly." 

" _John_." 

"I _like_ marmite sandwiches!" 

"You can't subsist on marmite sandwiches," Anna scolded him. "You're _nursing_." 

"I'm eating bananas and oranges and apples and salads, too. And yoghurt. That's protein and dairy and grain and veg and fruit, and none of it needs cooking." 

Anna sighed. "Doctors make the most _appalling_ mothers." 

"Oi," said John, pointing his sausage-laden fork at her. "I _will_ kick you out." 

"No, you won't." 

"No, I won't," agreed John. He set down his fork and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. "I know, I know. Just - you know they say you should sleep when the baby sleeps? Except she only sleeps during the day, and I can't sleep when the sun's up. I've tried. I have no idea how I slept as long as I did this morning. And it doesn't matter anyway, because I've got to do laundry and clean the place at some point, and I'm still trying to set up the nursery upstairs and go through Sherlock's papers - Christ, Anna, you should see the amount of things he kept. I don't think he ever threw anything away. And it's got to be cleared out or put away somewhere safe because she's going to be crawling and moving around and I don't want her finding a rotten toe that rolled under the sofa and using it as a teething ring. And then it’s nighttime and I'm bloody exhausted and she won't settle unless I walk her around in circles. And in this flat, it's so small that walking around in circles is dizzying. She hates the rocking chair, unless she's already asleep. If I try to rock her down, she just screams and fusses." 

"She might be colicky." 

"Not really," said John. "Because she _does_ settle down, as long as I'm walking her. If she were really colicky, that wouldn't necessarily help. I think - she just wants me to hold her, all the time. And I don't mind, I get it. She ought to have both of us, she knows she’s missing someone. All she has is me, so she’s trying to use me to fill the void. And I want to hold her all the time, too, you have no idea how good it feels to hold her and smell her and how it makes my heart stop aching for a little while, but - she needs something I can't give her. Some _one_." 

_Sherlock._

John's breath caught. Anna put her hand on John's arm, and John covered it with his hand. "I am just...so. Bloody. Tired," he said, and heard his voice waver, and hated himself for a moment. 

"Finish your breakfast," said Anna, squeezing his arm. Her voice sounded a bit thick. John thought he should look at her, check to see if she was all right, but he didn't much want to move yet, for fear she'd see the redness in his eyes. "I'll just do the washing up, and then you're going to give me a list, and I'm going to fill up your fridge and freezer, yeah?" 

"Yeah," said John, and picked up his fork again. 

Anna was elbows-deep in the sink when he remembered what he'd said. "Anna." 

"Hmm?" 

"What I said. I didn't think." 

"Think about what?" asked Anna absently, scrubbing at the pan. 

"You not knowing what it's like. Emily and me, I mean." 

"Well, I wouldn't, that's true enough," said Anna. "Beta, remember. All the scents and urges and whatnot you omegas have - I'm fine without all that." 

"That's not what I meant." 

"No," said Anna, and she set the pan on the draining board. "Sometimes – well, if it happens for us, it’ll happen. Or it won’t. It's all right, John. I've always thought it was lucky, to be a beta. No offense." 

"I thought the same thing, for a long while," admitted John. 

Anna turned off the tap, but didn't turn around. "Not so much anymore?" 

"No." 

There was a mewling cry from the bedroom; Emily was waking up. John started to stand, but Anna turned, and smiled at him. 

"Finish your breakfast," she said. "I'll get her." 

"She'll need changing." 

"Then I'll do that too, and you need to write up a list for me." 

Anna dropped a kiss on John's head, her hand resting briefly on his shoulder, as she left the kitchen. 

"Oh, who's awake now?" he heard her say as she entered the bedroom. "And making such an awful racket? Come here, love, let's get you all dry and comfy and let your Daddy finish his tomatoes, because they're good for him, and I saw him hiding them under his toast like I wouldn't notice, and I will absolutely check to make sure he didn't throw them away while I'm in here with you." 

John laughed, and tried to eat the tomatoes without grimacing. He finished the rest of the sausages and was on the last piece of toast when Anna emerged with Emily tucked up in her arms. 

"Such a little love," Anna said. "Driving your daddy to distraction." 

"Or the madhouse." 

"Same thing. She's grown since the hospital." 

"She's three weeks old, I should hope so." 

"Maybe you should go," said Anna thoughtfully, automatically falling into a rocking motion as she stood. "To do the shopping, I mean. I can stay here with Emmy, and you can get a little fresh air and time to yourself." 

John's eyes widened. "I—" 

"When was the last time you left this flat?" 

John opened his mouth, then closed it again. "Ah." 

"Exactly." 

"I can't leave her." 

Anna frowned. "Is this another omega thing, or are you just being a nervous father?" 

"I'm not nervous!" 

"Your hand is shaking," said Anna. Emily started to whimper. 

"She needs—" began John, reaching for the dummies on the counter, but Anna was quicker, and popped it into Emily's mouth before the baby could get too far with her complaint. 

"We'll ask Mrs Hudson, see what she thinks," said Anna. “But I suspect she’d kick you out the door. I’m just gently prodding.” 

"Emily might need me." 

"Emily needs you sane." 

"I can't just up and leave her for a few hours!" 

"Then leave her for only one," said Anna. 

"I can't leave her with _you_." 

Anna's eyes blazed. "John Watson. I went to half your antenatal appointments, held your hand for the amniocentesis, and was in the room when the lactation consultant spent ten minutes teaching Emmy how to latch. Are you _honestly_ going to tell me that you don't trust me alone with your daughter for one hour? Do you really think I'm going to wait for you to go and then take Emmy and disappear into the night?" 

John closed his eyes. "Anna. I—I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean—" 

"I know what you meant," said Anna, a bit kinder now. "Here, take her for a moment." 

Anna shifted Emily into John's arms, and the baby instinctively turned toward him, pushing her nose into his chest and heaving a tiny baby sigh. He reached up to stroke her cheek, and one tiny, flailing hand caught at his finger, and held it. 

"She loves you," said Anna softly. "To distraction. To _your_ distraction. But you can't do this alone, John. You shouldn't have to, and it's horrible and unfair and I hate with every inch of me that you don't have anyone here to help on the worst days. You can't be a martyr for her. And no - it's not the same as the bond she has with you, or the one she might have had with Sherlock, but she's got so many people who love her, and who love you, and please, John. Let us help. Let us in. Let Emily learn to love us, too." 

John took a breath, and let it out slowly. "All right," he said, and leaned down to kiss Emily's head. "One hour. You'll ring if you need me." 

"I'll ring every ten minutes if you want me to," said Anna, and her voice was thick again. "Do you want to feed her before you go? I'll make up a list for you, instead of the other way round." 

John took Emily into the sitting room and settled onto his chair. Emily wasn't hungry, but he wanted a chance to examine her by daylight, to nuzzle her head, to examine the turn of her nose. He still wasn't sure whose nose she had. Perhaps she just had her own. 

"Here you are," said Anna, bringing him the list, and she sat opposite John onto Sherlock's chair. 

"Right," said John, and somewhat reluctantly, he shifted Emily back to Anna. "You don't have to ring every ten minutes." 

"Oh, good, because I would have made fun of you if you'd insisted." 

John pulled a face, and Anna grinned. "A text in half an hour, though?" she kidded him. 

"Please," said John, feeling somewhat stupid, and Anna chuckled. 

"Go," she told him, half an order, and he leaned over to give Emily a kiss. 

"Silly brave man, your daddy," Anna said to Emily, and John fled the flat before he could change his mind. 

Stepping outside onto the pavement, John stilled in the cold late February air. He could feel the damp and the wind playing on his cheeks, and he closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of London for a moment. Traffic was light, and somewhere a church bell was tolling; John realized, somewhat belatedly, that it was Sunday. How had he lost track of the days, when he woke every morning knowing exactly how old Emily was, nearly to the hour? Somewhere behind him, warm and cozy and bundled snugly in Anna's arms, a bit of his heart was beating. 

John, out of pure reflex, settled one hand on his stomach, and was only dimly surprised to find it flat. Worse, was to feel it... _empty_. John took a breath, and thought of the one thing he really, truly wanted to know, something none of the books in 221B could tell him. 

He stood still for a moment, letting London swirl around him, and then set off, blindly, in a long-remembered trek to the bookshop. 

* 

_During the postpartum period, up to 75% of omega and beta females, and up to 85% of omega males, experience some type of mood disturbance. Of these, some 50% of each group experience severe depression. A majority of the worst cases, in which medical intervention and even hospitalization may be required, involves omegas who for some reason lost access to their bond with their alphas at some point either during or shortly after pregnancy. However, even those omegas who remained bonded but show signs of postpartum depression may have difficulty accessing or sensing the bond with their alphas. In 77% of these cases, the bond is reinforced simply by the passage of time or proximity, but in 20% of the cases, the bond needs to be re-established via sexual relations, which is not usually medically advisable until six weeks postpartum._

John did the maths, frowned, and kept reading. But nowhere did the book give any information about the remaining three percent. 

He rested his hand over his stomach again. If his calculations were correct, 97% re-established their bonds. The remaining three.... 

Well, it was obvious. The remaining three never re-established bonds. Either because of lack of desire, or because of inability. John knew he wasn’t the first single omega parent in the world, but he doubted he’d meet another anytime soon. 

Sherlock was dead. He wouldn't have a chance for increased proximity, or sexual relations, or even just the passage of time. It wasn’t really possibly to self-diagnose for psychological conditions, but John knew he wasn’t depressed, no matter what Mrs Hudson or Harry or Anna or even, God help him, Aurora Holmes worried about when they thought he wasn’t looking. He almost wished he was depressed – that would have been a comfort, thinking that it was only depression hiding the bond with Sherlock. 

But it wasn’t depression hiding the bond. Nothing hid the bond, because there was nothing to hide. John’s bond was gone, snapped the moment Sherlock fell from St Bart’s. 

John dropped the book to his lap and let his head fall back to the bookshelf. He let out a long sigh. Stupid, to feel like half of something. He'd spent thirty-seven years unbonded, and hadn't felt like he was missing any part of him. Six months bonded, and now with the bond gone, why did he feel like a puzzle broken in two? 

John shoved the book back onto the shelf and pushed himself to his feet. He winced as he stood, and glanced at his watch. "Christ," he muttered - an hour and a half? He pulled out his mobile and quickly dialed home. Anna answered on the second ring. 

"Hello," she said cheerfully. He could hear music in the background, but no screaming infant. 

"Anna, it's John. I'm so sorry, I lost track of time." 

“I thought as much, but I didn't want to bother you. We're having a grand old time, but I think Emmy's getting a bit hungry." 

"I can come straight home," said John, zipping up his coat. "Only - I didn't do the shopping." 

Anna laughed. 

* 

Anna spent the rest of the afternoon cooking, and the flat filled with the scent of chicken and roast beef and bread and carrots. Even Emily seemed to notice and respond to the smells, wrinkling her little nose and waving her hands emphatically into a stretch above her head, and then down onto John’s legs with a bang. 

“Are you cooking for just me or an army?” asked John when Anna collapsed in Sherlock’s chair, a smudge of flour on her nose and her forehead damp with perspiration. 

Anna grinned. “You _are_ an army.” 

“Demobbed, ta.” 

Anna waved her hand dismissively. “It’ll freeze for later. Greg just texted me; he’s wrapped up his case. Is it all right if he comes over for dinner?” 

“Of course, especially if he helps to eat it all.” 

“Good, I thought as much. Is there beer? I’ll have him pick some up.” 

“He’ll have it drink it on his own; if I have any, I’ll never stay awake for Emily.” 

Anna looked thoughtful. “Do you want one? Because we could stay late, let you sleep a little.” 

“Anna,” said John. “I can’t let you do that.” 

“Why not? It’s even better than you flitting off to the bookshop instead of Tesco, because you’ll be in the next room doing what I told you to do, instead of three streets down with your nose buried in a book.” 

John grinned, and shook his head. “You’re too good to me.” 

“You think I’m being altruistic; you’re wrong. I just want time with this little love.” Anna leaned over to coo at Emily. 

“She’s sleeping,” John cautioned. 

“And I’m covered in flour and the beans are going to boil over. Please say yes, John, even for a little.” 

John yawned. 

“That’s a yes,” said Anna smugly and headed back into the kitchen. 

“No, it’s not!” 

“Yes, it is!” called Anna over her shoulder, and John chuckled at Emily, who smacked her lips in her sleep. 

Greg arrived an hour later, beers in tow. John was dozing in his armchair, sitting comfortably with Emily in the crook of his arm. He still hadn’t decided about the beer, but he’d fed Emily anyway just to be safe, and anyway, she was already on supplemental formula. 

Greg knocked on the door but didn’t wait for anyone to answer before coming in. He saw John sitting and grinned at him, waving the beer in greeting. 

“She asleep?” 

“Just now,” confirmed John. 

Greg nodded and went into the kitchen. “Hullo, wife,” he said cheerfully, and John heard the low murmur of voices and the clink of the beer bottles. 

Greg wandered back into the room, holding two bottles of beer, and frowned. “You could have been useful and at least moved the telly where we could see it.” 

“Right, sorry, was busy lactating, ta.” 

Greg shuddered. “Oh, fine, bring _that_ up before I’m well and truly pissed.” 

He dropped the beers on the table and went over to fuss with the telly in the corner, shifting it to where they could both see it easily. “You’re having a beer with me, yeah?” 

“Yes, he is!” called Anna from the kitchen. 

“I haven’t decided,” said John. “Bit not good, drinking a beer and holding a baby.” 

Anna appeared in a heartbeat, reached down, picked up the sleeping, cuddly Emily, handed John a bottle of beer, and whisked back out of the room. 

“That’s settled, then,” said Greg, pleased, and he switched on the telly, now much more centrally located where John could see it, and collapsed in Sherlock’s chair. 

“Didn’t think I’d wrap that case up in time,” said Greg, satisfied. 

John stared at the screen. “Wait – is that the football finals? _Already_?” 

Greg chuckled. “Have you been living under a rock?” 

“No, I’ve been living with an _infant_. I can’t remember my own name half the time.” 

“Tosser,” said Greg, helpfully. 

“Wanker!” 

“John.” 

“Greg.” 

“Boys,” sang Anna from the kitchen. 

“Wife!” said Greg, lifting his beer bottle in salute. 

John took a pull of beer, barely thinking about it, and when he lowered the bottle, Greg was grinning at him. 

“Well? First beer in a year?” 

John used the bottle to point at Greg. “You are a very, very bad man.” 

“Liverpool by two,” said Greg. 

“Cardiff,” replied John, shaking his head. 

“Are you kidding? Cardiff’s a fluke, Liverpool’s got history and a backbone.” 

“I root for the underdog,” said John firmly. “Or whoever isn’t Arsenal.” 

Greg might have responded, but the game started, and within minutes, they were moaning and groaning at the telly instead. John snuck another mouthful of beer, and settled into his chair, except for the moments when he and Greg were both propelled up by pure football-related fury. 

“Oh, come off it, that was worth a penalty!” 

“It was not, they didn’t even touch.” 

“Did pregnancy make you _blind_ , he hauled him down and _held_ him there.” 

“How many beers have you had?” 

“Two!” 

“One, which makes _me_ the sober one.” 

“Oh, please, you haven’t had a beer in a year, you’ve lost your tolerance. I could drink you under the table without blinking.” 

“Is that a challenge?” 

Anna stepped in front of the telly, and both men let out a groan. “I now interrupt this testosterone-fueled argument to announce that dinner is ready.” 

“We’ll eat here,” said Greg, looking up at her. 

“You’ll eat at the table.” 

“We can at least move the telly,” said John hopefully, and Anna turned to look at him, her eyes sparkling. 

“Telly and beer at dinner, there’s a good example for your daughter.” 

“You’ve been in the kitchen cooking all day,” Greg pointed out. “And we’re drinking beer and watching the football.” 

“Reinforcing stereotypes,” agreed John, and he and Greg clinked their beer bottles together. 

Anna laughed. “All right, then. Telly and football. But only because John asked so nicely.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Not in words,” agreed Anna, and leaned over to kiss John’s temple. 

“Oi,” said Greg, and Anna laughed again and went to kiss his temple as well. 

“Don’t move the telly; I’ll bring you your dinners on trays.” 

“I don’t think we _own_ trays,” said John, and took another pull of his beer so as not to see the glance Anna and Greg shared at the plural pronoun. 

“I’ll find something,” said Anna, and sure enough, she did. 

It was sometime during the second half, while John was feeding Emily a bottle, and Anna was cleaning up in the kitchen, that Greg spoke. 

“Would’ve liked to have called you in, mate, on this last one.” 

“Good one?” asked John, half an eye on the telly, half an eye on Emily. 

Greg’s chuckle was wry and sad all at once. “He would have loved it. How’d he put it? Like Christmas.” 

John smiled, remembered. “I’m not him.” 

“Closest we’ve got. You understood how he thought.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Better’n me.” Greg took another swallow of beer. “Oh, Christ,” he moaned at the telly. “Wide open, and Adam has to aim for the keeper.” 

John smiled, and put his full attention on Emily for a moment as he shifted her to sit up a little more. 

“If I did ring you, would you come?” 

John didn’t answer. Emily fussed with the bottle, and John wasn’t sure if she was simply not hungry, or if she was having trouble latching. He finally gave up, set the bottle down, and lifted her up to his shoulder to burp her. 

He was about to refuse, when Anna walked in and collapsed on Greg’s lap. “Washing up is done,” she said, pleased, and kissed Greg’s cheek. “What’s the score?” 

“Tied at one.” 

“Who’s winning?” 

Greg’s question was forgotten – or least ignored. John breathed a sigh of relief, and settled into the chair with Emily tucked against his shoulder, determined to just enjoy the moment. 

* 

John dreamed. 

Cold, misty rain and puddles on the pavement, the splash as they ran through them. Lungs bursting with frozen air and throats raw from gasping it in, his mouth dry but his eyes bright, Sherlock's coat billowing out behind him and if John reached out, he might be able to grab the hem, pull him back, keep him from topping over the edge. 

Sherlock always teetered, right there, dancing on the tightrope, arms out for balance. John was used to having his heart lodged in his throat, watching him. He barely noticed the sensation anymore. 

"Come on, John," shouted Sherlock, out on the tightrope, wavering back and forth. 

"You're mad," John called to him, and Sherlock flashed a grin, eyes bright. 

"Come on, John! I'll catch you if you fall." 

"You daft bugger, you can't catch me if you're on the rope, too." 

But John stepped out onto the rope, and it was easy. His leg didn't hurt and his hands didn't shake, and Sherlock bounced and John bounced with him, arms outstretched, holding his balance. John walked the tightrope, and reached the other side without impediment. He turned to look back, the smile on his face, to see Sherlock still out there, still flashing that mad, impossible grin at him. 

"Knew you could do it," said Sherlock fondly. 

"How'd I pass through you?" asked John. 

"Can't pass through what doesn't exist," said Sherlock, moving his arms in circles. 

"That doesn't make any sense." 

Sherlock bounced on the tightrope again, up and down, as if it were a trampoline. "John Watson isn't mean to hide away from the world. That's not why I did it." 

"Why did you do it, then?" 

"John," said Sherlock. "Do keep up." 

He jumped, high into the air, and his feet left the bounds of the rope. John craned his neck up to watch, and when Sherlock stopped rising, he caught his breath, and pushed himself awake. 

His neck was still contorted, as if he were looking up to see Sherlock above his head. John felt oddly calm, even with his heart beating hard in his chest. Dreams of Sherlock always did that; his heart would pound, but otherwise he'd be calm and quiet, wanting just to hold on, a little more. He wished Sherlock would stay still in the dreams, but he was always moving, as if the manic energy he'd exhibited in life was exacerbated by death. 

John lay in his bed, breathing, wondering at the quiet in the room, and let his heart stop pounding. His chest was a bit sore - not from sorrow, but from milk, and he reached over to Emily's bassinet before remembering that she wasn't in it, because it was the middle of the night, and somewhere in the flat, Anna and Greg were keeping watch over her, to let him sleep. 

He heard the noises now, from the sitting room, a soft, melodious murmur, and John sat up. Two in the morning, by the clock - no wonder his chest ached, it'd been hours since he'd nursed Emily. He'd have to pump, what with the alcohol that surely still ran through his system, but that was all right. 

John swung his legs over the edge of the bed and went to the door, pushing it open just a little. He didn't want to disturb them, if Emily was actually asleep. 

The sitting room was dim, lit only by a lamp and the spilled light from the street. John could see Anna asleep on Sherlock’s armchair, covered by a blanket, and the shadow of Greg pacing back and forth, Emily in his arms. He leaned against the doorframe as Greg came into view, and then disappeared again, back and forth, walking with a gait that had become all too familiar to John in the last few weeks. 

"Now, you'd think most people wouldn't want to go wandering off in a warehouse that was covered in mold and dust, and I wasn't all that keen on it myself, but your father, he just up and went running, straight in, didn't even bother with a torch, the bloody idiot, and the first thing he did was trip over the chairs that had been set up as a barricade against tossers like him. The clatter, you never heard the like, so I had to go after him. Found him on the ground and howling, swearing up and down, hauled him to his feet and handed him a torch. Not that he thanked me, either, but set off running again, this time with me at his heels. Bloody fast runner, was your father, and we could hear Halifax at the other end, not that we could see him. 

"Then it goes all quiet, and we hit the end of the warehouse. No doors, no windows, no way of escape, and your father, he goes all quiet and still. Stands in the middle of the room, not even out of breath, while I'm gasping like a racehorse. 

"'Lestrade, turn off your torch,' he says to me, and if I'd had breath I would have argued, because your father, even when you knew he was right, he was the type of man you just argued with for the sake of arguing. Christ, I’d have liked to see him argue with you, when you hit your teenage years, I could sell tickets. I turned off my torch, and he turned off his, and we're standing in the middle of an abandoned warehouse with a pair of unlit torches and a murderer in the shadows. 

"It took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but when they did, I could see the barely hint of moonlight coming in through the windows, so high there wasn't a chance of escape through them, and then your father, he - I don't know how to describe it, Em, he just _slid_ , and I could hear Halifax grunt, and your father let out a shout and I turned off the torch and there he was, sitting right on top of Halifax, face down on the concrete. The look on triumph on your father's face! Short-lived, because in the next instant he was on his feet and hauling Halifax with him, and looked as cool as a cucumber. Never did tell me how he was able to disarm Halifax in the dead dark without getting so much as a scratch. And he disappeared before I had a chance to tie him down to fill out the paperwork. That's one thing your dad does that your father never did, _he_ makes a point of filling out the paperwork." 

"That why you want me back?" asked John, smiling, and Greg looked up, startled. 

"Did I wake you?" 

"No," said John. "Good choice of bedtime story, by the way." 

"Put her to sleep, anyway," said Greg wryly. "Works on Anna, too." 

John chuckled, and went to take his daughter back. "I'll put her down." 

"Yeah," said Greg, and yawned. 

"Yes," said John suddenly, and when Greg looked confused, he continued, quickly, before he could think. "Your question. About working with you. Yes. Not right away, but—" 

Greg's grin was slow. "All right then. I'll ring you, if something good comes up." 

"Look forward to it," said John, and he grinned. "Now I sound like Sherlock." 

"Nah," said Greg. "Not half as annoying as that overgrown berk." 

Greg brushed his fingers over Emily's head, once, and turned back to the sitting room. "I'm going to kip out on your sofa, that all right?" 

"Yeah, sure," said John, and carried his daughter back to bed, more content and comfortable, and feeling like _himself_ , than he'd been in weeks.


	6. Chapter 6

_The debt has been repaid._

“Debt? What debt?” asked John in the darkened room. “What did Jane owe?” 

“School loans,” said Emma. “Credit cards. Gambling?” 

“We paid her enough to cover her school loans, and she didn’t have any other debts,” said John. “Anything else would have come up on Mycroft’s background check.” 

“Not Jane’s debts,” said Sherlock. “If this was about her debt, why leave a message where she can’t see it?” 

“It’s for you,” said John slowly, catching on. “It’s your debt.” 

“Yes.” 

Sherlock heard John's sigh, knew he was rubbing the bridge between his eyes, finally felt his hard look on his shoulders. 

"Moriarty owed you." 

"Yes." 

"Moriarty is dead." 

"Very." 

"Then I don't know, Sherlock. I have no sodding _clue_ what is going on here. Irene Adler is dead, and then she isn't, and then she is, and then she isn't. You were dead, and now you aren't, and Moriarty was dead, and now he's leaving you messages, and Moran is dead, but you don't seem to believe it. I don't even know the difference between dead and alive anymore, and I'm a sodding _doctor_ , that's about the most basic medical diagnosis you can make, even an idiot knows the difference." 

"You're not—" 

"Shut it, Sherlock. Just..." John stopped, and the sofa made a soft shushing sound as he sat down on it. "Is Emily dead? Tell me that. No, don't. I'd never believe it anyway." 

Sherlock took three quick strides and was on his knees in front of John in a heartbeat. The pheromones hit him like a tidal wave, and Sherlock had to fight to keep himself still. He didn't dare touch John. Not now, even if it was the only thing he wanted to do. "Emily. Is _not_ dead," he said, voice rough and low. "They aren't going to hurt her, or touch one hair on her head. Do you understand me? She is _not. Dead._ " 

"Just stop talking, please," whispered John, eyes screwed shut, hands tight in fists. "Please. You're making it worse." 

Sherlock sighed, and lowered his head. He didn’t think John meant the possibility of Emily being dead. Not from the way that John’s hands clenched and released in a steady beat. 

"Christ," said Lestrade from the doorway, but neither man moved. Emma straightened, instantly on guard, but as soon as she recognized Lestrade, she relaxed again, and moved her hand away from the bulge under her jacket. 

Lestrade pushed past Emma, barely giving her a glance, and walked into the flat. He stared at the words written on the walls. “Jane too.” 

“We viewed it on the CCTV footage,” said Emma. 

Lestrade took notice of Emma for the first time. “I’m sorry, you are?” 

“Unimportant,” said Emma. 

“Mycroft’s,” filled in Sherlock. 

“Were you planning on sharing the CCTV footage with me?” asked Lestrade, unable to hide the annoyance. 

“Eventually,” said Emma, evasively, and turned back to her Blackberry. 

“Ta, helpful,” said Lestrade dryly, but Emma turned her Blackberry around and shoved it at Lestrade, who immediately leaned in closer and studied the moving images on the screen. “I thought the video was compromised.” 

“We uncompromised it,” explained Emma. 

Lestrade tensed, and muttered “Christ” under his breath. The duffel bag, surely. John took in a deep breath, and Sherlock tensed next to him and tried not to think about Emily in a duffel bag, and remembered instead the sound of a zipper slowly sliding over his head, the feel of the canvas on his skin, the dark surrounding him close and comforting and cold. 

“If they took Jane, then Emily's kidnapping wasn't random." 

"You never thought it was," said Sherlock. 

"No, but I'm not the only one on the case." Lestrade ignored Sherlock's sharp look. "I told you, I have limited strings, no matter what you may think, Sherlock. What debt?” 

"Mine," said Sherlock. "Moriarty owed me." 

"He paid you already," said Lestrade. "Three years and change, if I remember correctly." 

"Accrued interest." Sherlock rose to his feet, still conscious of John, eyes screwed shut, on the sofa. "He's dead. He killed himself next to me. You can't fake blowing your brains out." 

John let out a soft, wry laugh. Lestrade glanced at him, and took a step forward with his hand outstretched as if to comfort him, but stopped dead just before making contact. His eyes widened and his nostrils flared. 

"What—" 

"Don't," said Sherlock, dangerously. 

Lestrade jerked his hand back, as if touching John might have scalded him. "I thought—" 

"Yes, well," said Sherlock testily, his entire body tense. "I'd appreciate it if you stayed on the other side of the room." 

Lestrade waited nearly a half second too long before backing away. "We'll need to photograph the room. Do you have contact information for her family? And a photograph, we can put it up with Emily's." 

John opened his eyes. "Did you need one of Emily for the alerts?" 

"Used the one on my desk. It was…easier than asking you for one," said Lestrade, and John nodded. 

"You'll tell Jane's parents?" 

"Someone in my division will," said Lestrade. "I don't suppose you saved the deductions for my arrival, did you, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock took him through what he had managed to deduce about Jane's abduction, while Lestrade frowned and poked around the room. 

"Why are you so sure that it's your debt?" asked Lestrade finally, staring at the words on the wall. "It says _the_ debt, not your debt. Maybe the debt belonged to whoever took Emily and Jane." 

"I don't owe anyone anything," said Sherlock. "I haven't taken anything that wasn't offered." 

"Moran?" 

"Unfortunately, I had nothing to do with his death." 

"The timing of it, though—" 

"Perhaps I wanted him dead," said Sherlock shortly. "But John will attest that I have not left the country this week." 

"Fine, then," said Lestrade. "If it's not Moriarty and it's not Moran, who has reason to believe that you do owe them something? Are you absolutely sure that there aren't any other players out there?" 

"Every one of Moriarty's subordinates is dead," said Sherlock slowly, as if explaining advanced calculus to Emily over tea. "I killed most of them myself, and the ones I did not, I verified." 

"Except Moran." 

Sherlock glanced at John, who still sat on the sofa, dangerously still. "He's dead. Not verified by me, but that makes him no less dead." 

John caught Sherlock's gaze and held it for a moment. His eyes were darkened and round, and when Lestrade's mobile rang, Sherlock took the opportunity to let himself gaze back. In, out - in, out - in tandem with each other, breathing in the shared air despite being too far away to touch. The world around them stilled and fell away, and Sherlock thought he could feel the blood rush under his skin. 

"Right, thanks," said Lestrade, and he snapped the phone closed. "We've got something." 

John held his breath, breaking the chain, but Sherlock didn't take his eyes away. "What is it?" 

"Two men and a woman were reported entering a warehouse down in Hampstead. The woman wasn't walking straight, someone reported it to the local police, thought it was a drugs or sex thing. Might be, but it's worth checking into even if it's not Jane and the abductors." 

"There's no indication that the car headed in that direction," said Emma. "We're still trying to track—" 

"But there's no reason why we can't go," Lestrade interrupted her. "And this isn't the kind of case where we can wait for confirmation before we put someone onto a lead." 

"We're not to going to stop tracking." 

"I'm not asking you to," said Lestrade. "I assume you're going to follow?" 

"I don't have any intention of waiting here," said Sherlock. 

"Let's move," said Lestrade, and he pushed past Emma and out the door. 

John stood, carefully, as if suddenly unsure of his legs. Sherlock took a step closer, and subconsciously matched their breaths again. "Better now?" he asked, low. 

"Yes," said John, but Sherlock could see the muscles twitch under his skin, the slight flush at the back of John's neck. 

"You should stay here." 

"No, Emily—" 

"It's safer for you here." 

John shook his head and pressed his lips together. "I can't sit here waiting, Sherlock. I'm fine. It's just..." 

"You're sure you took—" 

" _Yes_." John's voice, harsh and hoarse, sent a tremor through Sherlock, and John inched back, knowing it. He tried to soften his voice. It didn't help. "I did. We've been over this. Christ, do you think I _want_ this right now?" 

"No, but - John, you were just in a room with three alphas. None of us dared get within five feet of you. I don't know who's going to be at the warehouse, and you're only going to get worse. I can't protect you." 

"I don't need protection," said John firmly. 

"John." 

"You're _not_ leaving me behind." 

Sherlock exhaled. "Fine. I won't leave you behind." He paused. "Mrs Hudson. We should check on her." 

John frowned, instantly suspicious. "If this is an attempt to slip away—" 

"It's not." 

John assessed him, and then nodded. Impulsively, he reached out and took Sherlock's hand. His skin was already growing warmer. "Come on, Lestrade won't want to wait for long." 

They surprised Mrs Hudson while she mopped the kitchen floor. "I couldn't sit still," she said, and her hands were shaking, not from fear or nerves but from the restlessness Sherlock recognized. "The phone hasn't rung once. I've checked, there's a dial tone and it's still ringing out." 

"You made a call?" asked Sherlock. 

"My own number, downstairs. Just to see. I hung up the moment I heard the ring." 

Sherlock nodded, touching the back of the sofa, the lamp, the books, his violin, as if reminding himself they were there. John stood by the door, itching to leave again. 

"Sherlock," he said. 

"I don't know how long we'll be," said Sherlock to Mrs Hudson, and she smiled with a shrug. 

"Be as long as you need. I'm all right." 

"Elfin," said John suddenly, and he dashed up the stairs to Emily's room. 

Now. Sherlock placed his finger over his mouth, motioning Mrs Hudson's silence, and slipped out of the flat, down the stairs, and out the door. He fell into the car next to Emma, slamming the door. 

"Go," he said brusquely. 

"John—" 

" _Go_." 

The car went, and Sherlock closed his eyes and leaned back against the leather seat, hoping that John would be able to forgive his abandonment a second time. 

* 

John knew, before he even came down the stairs. In a way, he knew the moment he went up, and yet he went, and found Elfin on the bed where he’d left it. He held onto the elephant, squashed nearly flat by three years of intense loving, and looked around the little room that he knew by heart. 

The shelves in the corner, which Greg had helped him hang before Emily was born. The nightlight he’d used as a child. The picture Harry had taken in Cardiff the week after Emily was born, of the bay and the boats and an orange smudge of sunset. The rocking chair that Aurora had brought when Emily was a few weeks old, supposedly the one she’d used with both Mycroft and Sherlock as babies, even though the idea of Aurora rocking anyone to sleep was completely ridiculous. 

But she’d held Emily expertly, and explained in no uncertain terms what it was to be a Holmes, and John had sat on the floor, eyes closed and head resting on the crib, and dozed while he listened. 

Once, this room had been his, and his alone. And then it wasn’t. 

He knew this room by heart, knew every chip in the paint and every dent in the dresser. Could move without turning on the lights, knew precisely when anything was out of place. Which was why he kept staring at the shelves in the corner, and eventually walked over to them to nudge the nightlight back into place, and frowned when his fingers brushed against the object that was hidden behind it. 

John wrapped his fingers around the figurine, and knew. Before he even opened his hand to look at the object, he knew he would see the little ceramic dog. 

John breathed. In, out, in, out. He could hear the traffic, faint, from the street, imagined Sherlock being carried away in the black car, heading to a warehouse somewhere north of the city, following a trail that might not lead to Emily. 

Mrs Hudson waited downstairs. John took a last look around Emily’s room before setting Elfin gently on the bed next to her pillow. He slipped the dog in his coat pocket and went down the stairs. 

Mrs Hudson jumped up from the sofa when he came down. “Oh, John.” She wrung her hands and bit her lip. 

“It’s all right, Mrs Hudson,” said John evenly. “You couldn’t have stopped him.” 

“Do you want something to eat?” 

“No, thank you. I think I’ll go lie down. Just…rest a little.” 

“Of course, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, and he went through the kitchen and into the bedroom he shared with Sherlock. He sat on the bed and waited for Mrs Hudson to finish the washing up, and when the water stopped running, and the telly turned on softly, John stood, and checked that the gun was still tucked in his waistband at the small of his back. 

It was. John walked to the window, opened it, and dropped to the garden below. 

* 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed for the ride to Hampstead. Beside him, Emma's fingers kept up a running commentary on her Blackberry, never once stopping to pause for consideration or reflection, and it was while the car was hurtling along at sixty miles an hour that he spoke. 

"Where is my brother?" 

Emma didn't answer, though she did pause in her typing. For a moment. It was enough, and Sherlock opened his eyes and sat up. He didn’t bother to wait for Emma to answer. "He's behind the scenes, of course, the world's most obvious stage manager. Sitting behind a desk watching all of this on CCTV. Safe." 

"Someone needs to watch the various moving pieces," said Emma. 

"Hmm." Sherlock slunk back down on the leather seat again. "Lazy sod. He'd rather sit behind a desk than risk a spot on his suit." 

Emma let out a small, snorting sort of laugh, and Sherlock's eyes flicked over to her. "You disagree." 

"Immensely." 

"When has my brother _ever_ delved to get his hands dirty?" 

"That'd be telling," said Emma smoothly. "You left John behind." 

"I did." 

"He'll be angry." 

"He'll be _safe_." 

"Exactly," said Emma. "You aren't half as clever as you think you are, Sherlock Holmes." 

Sherlock grunted, and tapped his fingers together. And then his fingers paused, mid-tap, and he glanced back at Emma, still working on her Blackberry. 

"Ah." 

"Took you long enough," said Emma. 

Sherlock snorted, and turned to look out the window. "What could possibly be in it for you?" 

The tapping stopped, and Sherlock turned back to Emma. She had lowered her Blackberry, and stared at Sherlock with a rather frightening and predatory look in her eye. It reminded Sherlock of someone, and for a moment, he couldn't think of whom. 

"Whatever makes you think that _he's_ the one with the better deal," said Emma coldly, dangerously, and Sherlock recognized the look. No wonder he hadn't before; it was the one he wore every time he looked at Lestrade. 

"He's my brother, I'm contractually obligated," said Sherlock, and Emma smiled, once again slipping on the mask of a deceptively mild-mannered assistant. 

The rest of the ride passed in silence. Sherlock considered deleting the new information about his brother and his assistant, and instead locked it in a trunk in the farthest, darkest, dustiest corner of his mind palace's attic. He accidentally kicked the box marked "Moriarty" on the way, and the dust billowed like a cloud. 

Fifteen minutes left, Sherlock estimated, and quietly began to unpack the box. 

* 

The warehouse was not empty, but there was no one there worth finding. Not to Sherlock, at least, but Lestrade had his hands full. Sherlock and Emma remained on the outskirts of the warehouse, frustrated and jittery and unable to sit still. Sherlock could still smell the omega pheromones clinging to their clothes, their skin, their hair; imagination, no doubt, but the scent lingered in his nostrils, and from the way that Emma was trying desperately to keep her breathing even, and her hands from shaking, he had no doubt that she still smelled it, too. He paced the gravel, kicking and shuffling just to hear the scratches as the rocks tumbled together beneath his feet. Emma, for once, was not on her Blackberry. Instead, she kept her arms crossed and stared intently at the door leading inside, leaning just a bit toward it. 

"Go on," said Sherlock without looking at her. She wanted to go back in; he knew the feeling. 

"No," said Emma, and Sherlock felt both better and worse. 

Lestrade came back outside eventually, his neck flushed and slightly sweating. He looked even jitterier than Sherlock felt. 

“The local constabulary has it now,” he said, and ran his fingers through his hair, scratching at his head. 

"That wasn't your case," Sherlock snapped at him. 

"Right, and I should have just up and left a dozen omegas to be half-willing participants in some bizarre alpha-beta presentation ritual," snapped Lestrade, and he patted his pockets before groaning. "Christ, I need a fag." 

Emma pulled one from her coat pocket, and Lestrade had it lit before it'd even left her fingers. Sherlock glared at them both. 

"False tip," said Sherlock. 

"For you," said Lestrade. "Not for the omegas." 

Sherlock couldn't keep still. He swiped the cigarette from Lestrade's fingers and took a deep drag. The nicotine was a rush, but it wasn't quite enough to calm the frayed nerves brought on by a dozen omegas in full heat in a closed space. The pheromones still lingered in the air, even outside, and Sherlock exhaled the smoke from his lungs in a shaky breath. 

"Where's John?" asked Lestrade, taking the cigarette back. 

"Baker Street." 

Lestrade took a drag and handed Sherlock the cigarette. "Thank God." 

Sherlock sucked in the smoke and held it, giving Lestrade a careful inspection. The man really did look relieved. He blew the smoke out in a thin line, but held onto the cigarette. "Glad you don't have to fight me for the privilege?" 

" _Christ_ , Sherlock," said Lestrade testily. He walked away and rubbed the back of his neck. "I thought John was on suppressants." 

"He is." 

"He’s going into _heat_ , Sherlock." 

"Don't you think I am aware of that?" snapped Sherlock. 

"Did he stop taking them?" 

"I don't know." 

"Then why—" 

"I. Don't. Know," said Sherlock through gritted teeth. "And it's not any of your business." 

"He's my friend and I'm worried about him." 

"It's not your job to worry about him. It's your job to find our daughter and so far, you've been wallowing in omega pheromones." 

Lestrade's back was still turned toward Sherlock, so Sherlock couldn't see Lestrade's face. He didn't really need to; he saw the peculiar lift and fall of his shoulders, a deep breath that was either meant to calm himself down or try to clear his lungs a little more. 

"Jane and her abductors aren't here," said Lestrade evenly. "Which means Emily isn't here either. Emma, any word on how the CCTV tracking is going?" 

"I'll check," said Emma; that she didn't know automatically might have been worrying, but Sherlock had stopped paying attention to anything that did not involve Lestrade's perceived transgressions. 

"Fall back on the CCTV, of course," said Sherlock. "You won't even let me _help_ —" 

"Go back to Baker Street, Sherlock. We didn't find Emily here; it's going to take some time to figure out our next move." 

"That's not what you want," said Sherlock, his blood rising. "Me, alone with John, and a heat on the way?" 

"Sherlock—" 

"You'd rather it be you." 

Lestrade rubbed at his face. 

"Don't tell me your concern for John's welfare is the least bit altruistic. You're looking for a way to put me on a trail so that you can go and take what you've been wanting for the last year." 

Lestrade took a shaky, hard-earned breath, turned, and walked right up to Sherlock's nose. He stood, staring at the other man, his jaw tight, eyes hard and angry. 

For a moment, Sherlock thought Lestrade would hit him. Again. He almost welcomed it. 

“What is your problem? John and I are friends. _Friends_. I love him as a _brother_ , not a mate, and I love Emily as a niece, not a daughter. Anna loved Emily more than anyone in the world; we were the first people to see her in the hospital; we babysat when John had the flu, and every day, I saw how much John missed you. _You_ , Sherlock. I was never a replacement for you. If the last five months haven’t taught you that, I don’t see what me telling you this now is going to accomplish.” 

Sherlock stared at him, unmoving, uncaring. 

"Fine," said Lestrade finally. "Right. Punch me then." 

Sherlock gave his head a little shake. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"Go on," said Lestrade. "Hit me. Slap me. Break my nose. You've wanted to hit me for five months now, don't even bother to deny it, so get on with it already." 

"I'm not going to punch you." 

"Sherlock. Your daughter was kidnapped a few hours ago and we don't have any leads. You just found out that the man who tried to kill John is dead, but instead of celebrating, John is at Baker Street going into heat despite the suppressants, and we don't have any idea why. Your brother sent his lapdog to keep an eye on you, I won't let you assist with the case, and you've just been in a room with a dozen overheated omegas. You need to punch someone, and Emma is going to punch back." 

"True," called Emma from the sidelines. 

"This is a waste of time," said Sherlock. 

"Oh, for—" Lestrade sighed. "I didn’t really want to say this, but you’re not giving me a choice. If you hadn't come back, I was going to put the moves on John. And I'm pretty sure he would have fallen for them." 

Sherlock's punch was swift, direct, and hard, aimed directly at Lestrade's left cheekbone. The reverberations shook their bones, and Lestrade bent over, his mouth an open, painful surprise; Sherlock took a few steps back, clutching his hand, muttering "ow ow ow" over and over. Lestrade didn't say anything for a moment; he concentrated on rubbing his cheek and working his jaw to make sure it hadn't been dislocated. 

"Men," muttered Emma to the side, and kept studying her Blackberry. 

"Did you replace your cheekbones with _steel_?" demanded Sherlock. 

"Yeah, _I'm_ the robot," snorted Lestrade, and spat on the ground. He frowned when he saw the bit of blood mixed with the saliva. 

"John doesn't love you. John would _never_ love you." 

Lestrade straightened. His cheek where Sherlock had hit him was bright red. "Feel better now?" 

"No," said Sherlock, sulkily. 

"Brilliant," said Lestrade, not caring. "Let's go." 

"Where?" 

"Ask Emma," said Lestrade, and stalked to the cars waiting in the car park. "She stopped typing on her Blackberry a minute ago, I'm assuming there's something new." 

"Ah," said Emma as Sherlock's eyes focused on her. She was completely still, but her voice belied the exterior calm. "Yes. Baker Street." 

Baker Street; John. Sherlock thought of a thousand scenarios of John, home alone and unprotected, the heat coming so fast and furious and unexpected. 

"John—" 

"John's not there," said Emma. "He left about twenty minutes after we did." 

Sherlock couldn't speak. 

"What the hell is he thinking, coming after us?" demanded Lestrade. 

"He's not," said Emma. "He was headed south." 

"Why?" asked Lestrade. 

"No idea. He went by himself. No phone calls, no communication - he slipped out while Mrs Hudson was distracted." 

"He saw something," said Sherlock. "In Emily's room - he saw something we missed." 

"We didn't miss anything, we went over it with a fine-tooth comb," snapped Lestrade. 

"Clearly we missed something, why else would John be moving?" said Sherlock. He turned back to Emma. "Why are you only telling me this now?" 

"Because Mr. Holmes only just told me," snapped Emma. 

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Not the alpha all the time, are we?" 

Emma's eyes were furious and cold. "Don't. I'm not the stand-in for whatever abuse you want to hurl at your brother." 

"Are you tracking John?" asked Lestrade. 

"Yes." 

"Great. Let's go." 

Lestrade strode toward the cars without looking back. Sherlock shook his hand again, and as if performing stretching exercises, started to flex his fingers into the contortions Jane had made on the CCTV footage. Faster, then slower, then faster again. 

“Sherlock,” said Emma. “We need to go.” 

Sherlock swung his hand in, holding it close to his chest, and repeated the motions. 

“Lestrade’s already in his car, do you want him to reach Baker Street before we do?” 

“Let him go,” said Sherlock. His hand moved faster. 

“He’ll figure out where John’s gone.” Emma frowned at him. “What are you–?” She held her breath. “Jane’s message.” 

“Sign language, yes. Jane has a deaf cousin, she learned it from her. But she didn’t learn BSL – the cousin is _American_. It’s a completely different language.” 

“What’s Jane telling us?” asked Emma. 

Sherlock locked eyes with Emma, and slowly, one by one, repeated the motions, this time translating the sign language for her. “Mum. Brothers. Cottage. South.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that there are two versions of this chapter; if you want the explicit NC-17 version, read it on AO3. For the tamer R-rated version, read it on LJ. (This is primarily because my dad reads my fic on LJ, and he doesn’t much want to read the sexy bits!)
> 
> There is a companion one-shot to this chapter, “What Happened to John.” Read this first, though, or you’re going to spoil yourself for a few things.
> 
> You can find the R-rated version [on my LJ](http://azriona.livejournal.com/819280.html).

The car did not move fast enough for Sherlock, who could not stop moving his hands in the patterns made by Jane's message. 

_Mum. Brothers. Cottage. South._

Over and over, while Sherlock stared at his fingers, because it was better than staring out of the tinted windows to see the lights of London shining around them. Darkness had fallen; Sherlock knew the sun had gone down some time before but couldn't quite remember when, or if he'd noticed before now. 

"What time is it?" he asked, his voice breaking the silence in the car. 

"Half eight," said Emma. 

Four and a half hours. Emily had been missing for six hours, but they'd only known for four and a half. 

_Mum. Brothers. Cottage. South._

Sherlock stared at his fingers again. Brothers - two men, arguing in the alley, while Jane fought against whatever drugs they'd given her to keep her quiet and pliable. Jane had no brothers, but she'd know what they sounded like arguing. Brothers in reality, brothers in arms, brothers in crime. Jane was clever, she'd recognize the teamwork. Why would she need to tell him? Make sure he knew that they were together? Perhaps to warn him that they wouldn't be used against each other. Don't underestimate them. Be careful. 

Mum - not her own, Sherlock thought. No reason for Jane to mention her. So the men's mother (or mothers). Why would the men argue about their mum? Unless she was involved. Why would anyone's mother want to kidnap another person's child? 

Cottage, south. 

"Which direction is John going in?" asked Sherlock. 

"South," said Emma. "He's on the A20." 

Lewisham, Mottingham... _Chistlehurst._

Sherlock's mouth opened with his quick gasp, and his hands moved of their own volition. _Cottage, south._

"274 World's End Lane," he said. "He's going to Moran." 

Emma glanced up from her Blackberry, and Sherlock decided that if she said Moran was dead, he would kill her. 

"Righto," she said, and turned to tell the driver. 

“You can’t come with me.” 

Emma ignored him and went back to her Blackberry, typing as quickly as her thumbs would allow. 

“He’ll want me alone.” 

“He doesn’t want you at all,” said Emma. “If it’s Moran, he wants John. And anyway, we both know that it’s not Moran. Moran is dead, had no siblings, and his mother died when he was seven.” 

"Jane didn't know that." 

"And I'm willing to bet the men who took her didn't know it, either. It's still not Moran." 

"It's his _house_ ," said Sherlock. "John is going to Moran's house, of course it's..." Sherlock froze. "It's not Moran's house." 

Emma stopped typing, and turned her Blackberry around so that Sherlock could see the screen. 

_Moran does not own the house. Do not let my brother go alone. Mycroft Holmes_

Sherlock pressed his lips together. 

"You can't come with me." 

"Again with the histrionics," said Emma. 

"I'll tell Mummy about you," said Sherlock. 

Emma rolled her eyes, clearly unthreatened. 

"I'll tell _Mycroft_." 

Emma stilled. "Tell Mycroft what." 

Sherlock smiled. 

"I locked my brother on the school's roof once when he was seven," said Emma, almost conversationally. "For four hours. At night. It was raining. He'd cut my doll's hair off." 

"Imagine what you'd do to me," said Sherlock, still smiling. 

"I didn't even _like_ that doll." 

"Mycroft undoubtedly has this vehicle bugged," said Sherlock thoughtfully, running his hand along the edge of the door. "He's already on the edge of his seat, wondering. Eyes narrowed. Hands grasping. Breath truncated. Just hoping that I simply say - what - I - know..." 

Emma's eyes narrowed. 

And she turned off the Blackberry. 

Sherlock's smile turned into a grin. 

* 

The cottage looked exactly as Sherlock remembered it, tucked into the trees at the end of a gravel path, a single light glowing faintly from the front sitting room. There were no cars, and no shadows against the gauze curtains, no exterior lights to help him find his way. The scene was bucolic in a way that felt familiar, if only through painted postcards and childhood fairy tales. Sherlock gritted his teeth and kept walking along the gravel path, the crunching sound of the shifting stones beneath his feet. It was cold, and he could see his breath by the moonlight. Every breath made his lungs hurt. 

He paused at the base of the steps leading into the house. They must know he was there. Would be watching for him. Waiting. 

The mobile in his pocket trilled, and Sherlock pulled it out to look at it. 

_What game are you playing with my assistant? Mycroft Holmes_

_More than your assistant, apparently. SH_

Sherlock turned the mobile off, and slipped it back into his pocket. He didn't bother to go up the steps quietly, and he saw the curtains flick just a bit in the moment before he knocked loudly on the front door. 

"It's open," sang a voice from inside the house, and Sherlock went inside. 

It was warm, comfortably so. The sitting room was dim, lit only by the lamp next to the wingchair, and the fire crackling in the fireplace. There was no sign of John, Emily, or Jane, and the woman sitting in the wingchair stood up as Sherlock stepped into the room. She was dressed impeccably, a bespoke blue suit with few frills except for a floral design pinned to the lapel. Her hair was cut in a wavy bouffant, silver with streaks of white, and there was a pair of glasses on a chain resting on her chest. She could have run a board meeting, or chaired the Women's Literary Society with an iron fist. 

"Sage and rose petals," she said, motioning to the fire. "It does give off a rather homey sort of feeling, I find. Quite comforting. You may want to remove your coat, Mr Holmes, we may be here for a while." 

"I'm only here to pick up a few items," said Sherlock. "So if you'd like to tell me where they are, I'll be on my way." 

The woman laughed. "And I'm to just...hand them over?" 

"If you would be so kind." 

"Hmm." The woman sat back down and reached for the tray. "I made tea, but of course it's gone cold. Would you care for sherry instead? Or scotch?" 

"No, thank you," said Sherlock, and the woman shrugged. 

"No matter. You won't mind if I imbibe, of course." She poured herself a finger of the dark brown scotch and sat back in her chair, swirling the liquid in the glass. "Rather sticky conversation, if you aren't going to have a drink or sit down or even remove your bloody coat." 

"Then let's skip it entirely, and get to the point," said Sherlock. "Where are they?" 

"No," said the woman sharply. "I think you owe me a conversation, Mr Holmes." 

"You said the debt was paid." 

"But you're asking for a new debt to be opened. And I'm the one with the bargaining chips, Mr Holmes, since you've come unarmed and without anyone at your back. So I would strongly suggest you _sit. Down_." She smiled. "You can keep your coat and your sobriety, if they give you comfort." 

Sherlock stepped further into the room, eyes scanning it. He sat on the edge of the sofa. 

"Better," said the woman, pleased. "Now. Tell me what you see." 

Sherlock glanced at her, and then focused on the room. "The house hasn't been used in five months. There is a thick layer of dust on the table and the mantelpiece, apart from a few handprints, left by three people, all adults. One set of handprints on the mantelpiece shows that one person gripped it, hard, as if to hold themselves up—" Sherlock's voice faltered, briefly, before continuing. "A young woman, judging from the size of the hands. The room is sparsely decorated, but still has the basics of furniture. This house is used as a waypoint, a temporary dwelling. Even... a decoy." 

"Oh?" asked the woman, amused. 

"You want to give the impression that someone lives here, perhaps temporarily, but really that's not the case, is it?" 

"So someone does live here?" 

"No one lives here," said Sherlock. "The dust is proof of that. No one is meant to live here. Even when Moran lived here five months ago, he wasn't really meant to be in this house, was he? Did he merely give John the address to make it look like he had a place to live, to give him an extra layer of protection? Or was he living here the entire time, under your very nose without you knowing it? How long was Moran on the run from you?" 

The woman's eyebrows went up. "My, Mr Holmes. You are quite good, aren't you?" 

"Well?" demanded Sherlock. 

"Which do you think it is?" 

"You've been leaving me clues to find, all leading back to this house, starting before John even knew I was still alive by making sure he had the address, to the photographs on the wall, to the carefully dropped hints to the nanny, knowing she'd find a way to telegraph them to me. You want me in this house. You can't live here yourself, you'd never let me that close. When Moran ran five months ago, you had him followed. You had him killed in Singapore because he failed to kill John." 

" _Couldn't_ kill John, in point of fact," said the woman crisply. "Such a pity, Sebastian Moran was quite the fine assassin in his day. If he'd only killed Dr Watson at St Bart's four years ago, it would saved us all this...nonsense." 

"Nonsense," said Sherlock flatly. 

The woman waved her hand impatiently. "You. Your daughter. Your three years wasted taking down James's network. Although it was amusing, following you. I quite admired how you took care of the business in Laos. A rather delicate situation which you handled with aplomb and confidence." 

"Thank you," said Sherlock. 

"Oh, you're very welcome. I must admit I gave you a round of applause when I read the reports afterward. But it did lead us to here and now, Mr Holmes, and I'm afraid I can't let you continue. I just can't." 

Sherlock's blood froze, the familiar words, the same cadence, even the same bit of longing regret behind them. He stared at the woman, calmly taking another sip of her scotch. 

"You're his mother." 

"Bravo, Mr Holmes." 

"My daughter for your son, is that?" 

"In a manner of speaking," said Mrs Moriarty calmly. She set the glass back down on the table. 

"It was your network, not his," continued Sherlock. "I looked down - not up." 

"That's the odd thing about falling, Mr Holmes. You can only look in one direction once you start. A little difficult to turn and look the other way. Of course, you know this from practical experience." Mrs Moriarty folded her hands on her lap and smiled at him. It wasn't a pleasant smile. “Oh, dear. I’ve quite startled you with new knowledge. I seem to be doing that a lot recently.” 

Sherlock said nothing; he blew his breath out from his nose and waited. 

"I had such an interesting conversation with your Dr Watson earlier," continued Mrs Moriarty. "And I must say, I found it rather curious that he didn't seem to realize that you've known about Emily all this time." 

Sherlock's blood chilled, just a little. "To what are you referring, may I ask?" 

"Oh, Mr Holmes. No subterfuge is truly necessary with _me_. I taught James everything I knew, and he was at least as clever as you are. Of course, I'm biased, but then, so is your Dr Watson. Bias makes you blind to faults in those you love. I never saw James's insanity. Dr Watson never saw your perfidy." 

Sherlock remained silent. 

"Imagine how upset he was when I let that little tidbit slip. Oh, he didn't say anything - taciturn fellow, he said really very little while he was here. But I could see him take it in, mull it over, put all the pieces together. I think I may have even seen the moment when his heart broke." 

Sherlock's heart pounded. He could barely get the words out. "Where. Is. He." 

“I loved my son. Enough to let him play his games with you,” said Mrs Moriarty. “It amused him. He was such a lonely child. I thought – how lovely. He found a friend at last. But you weren’t very friendly, were you?” 

“Your son tried to kill me,” said Sherlock. “That doesn’t generally lend itself to confidences and playdates.” 

“Oh? And here I thought a playdate was defined as both parties enjoying themselves. You certainly enjoyed the games you played with each other.” 

“People _died_.” 

“That’s what people do,” said Mrs Moriarty, and she sounded regretful, rather than angry. “Unfortunately, they’re usually the _wrong_ people. Your Dr Watson should have died. Not my son.” 

Sherlock held himself still. “I didn’t kill your son.” 

“Didn’t you?” 

“He could have called it off.” 

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” said Mrs Moriarty. “James could no sooner have called off his little game than you could have ignored his offer to play. You were drawn to each other from the very beginning. Such friends you could have made. Such mates.” 

“Never.” 

"James killed himself to destroy you," mused Mrs Moriarty. "And you slipped through his fingers. But he had one thing quite wrong, did James. He thought that in order to destroy you, it was necessary to kill you. That's not quite accurate, is it? To really destroy you - how did he put it? Remind me, Mr Holmes. What did my son say that evening by the light of the pool?" 

Sherlock's teeth gritted. "Burn the heart out of me." 

"Ah, yes, that's it. To really burn the heart out of you, it's not you who would have to go. It's everyone you hold dear. Your Dr Watson. And your daughter." 

Sherlock could not move. 

"Moran could have taken care of them with a single bullet," said Mrs Moriarty with a sigh. "You knew, of course, that it wasn't just Dr Watson's life you were saving by stepping off that rooftop. Four lives hung in the balance, not three. I'm rather surprised you went through your subterfuge, with _her_ life at stake as well. No matter. It worked out for you, in the end, didn't it? For a little while." 

"I don't know what you believe," said Sherlock carefully. "I did not know about Emily." 

"Is that her name?" asked Mrs Moriarty casually. "How sweet. Industrious, hard-working, and depending on your sources, it could also mean 'rival'. How very interesting, that Dr Watson should choose that name for your daughter, without your input. Particularly since he believed that you had no idea she existed." 

"I didn't." 

" _Don't. Lie. To. Me_." The light, conversational, acerbic tone was instantly replaced by harsher, sharper, and ice-cold tones. Sherlock kept his eyes focused on her, unconsciously cataloging the way she rose in her chair, the flush to her cheeks, the sudden fire in her eyes. "Lie to _him_ , of course lie to _him_ , that's what you've done for nearly four years now, you probably couldn't tell him the truth if your life depended on it. If your _Emily's_ life depended on it. But don't believe for one moment that you could lie to _me_." 

Sherlock said nothing. 

Mrs Moriarty reached for her glass again. “I know you far too well.” 

“You don’t know me at all,” said Sherlock thinly. 

“Don’t I? My son - he became rather obsessed with you. You must understand, he operated mostly without my supervision, so I had no idea how deeply he had drawn you into his games - and he into yours - until it was far too late for me to intervene." 

"Intervene...?" 

"You of course know he wanted you dead. Rather extreme; after all, once one of you had eliminated the other, what's the point? All villains need a hero to counterbalance them. It's the same in the other direction. Without a balance, you become...ordinary. I suppose I should thank you. My son died fantastic. Had he outlived you, he would have become just that – ordinary. Isn't that what your life has been the last few months, Mr Holmes, without my son or his memory to balance you? Ordinary?" 

Sherlock was struck dumb for a moment. 

Waking up next to John. Breakfasts of eggs and soldiers trotting in rows before being dunked by toddler-sized fingers. Spilled milk and sticky spots on the floor, stories repeated so often they were memorized, walks to the park and long minutes staring in rapture at the elephants. Arguments over the necessity of naps, coats, milk, extra counter space. Trying to find a place for experiments; trying to convince John that experiments merited attention. Trying to put a recalcitrant toddler to sleep at three in the morning, only to lull the entire household back to sleep with Vivaldi, and nearly falling asleep himself. 

Emily, one morning as the sun rose, climbing into bed, over John, to reach _him_ , take his hand and lay so that his palm cupped her stomach, the way she preferred, the way she did with John. John's eyes blearily opening, seeing them, and smiling, a soft laugh escaping him, before falling back to sleep. 

Ordinary. 

"Yes," said Sherlock thickly. "It has. Where are they?" 

The woman tsked. "My son made you a promise, Mr Holmes. I intend to keep it for him." 

A footstep behind him; a sharp blow to the back of his head, and everything went black. 

* 

Sherlock did not like to sleep, as a general rule, because sleeping meant waking up. For most people - and by "most people", Sherlock usually meant "the entire world who was not John", though in this case it also included John - waking up could be a pleasant process, the slow, lazy realization that one was awake. Gradually opening eyes, taking stock of surroundings, and after a suitable period of time, beginning to interpret those surroundings into an understandable and cohesive experience. 

A phone rang, someone answered it. Sherlock could hear the crackle of static on the line. 

“I’m a little busy at the moment.” A pause, and then the voice turned from annoyed to sharp. “When? How long? What’s the respiration rate?” 

Sherlock never woke up slowly. He woke up with his brain racing and deducing in a rapid acceleration as it tried to make up for lost time. Most mornings, Sherlock woke up with a headache. It was why he kept the nicotine patches next to the bed; if he slapped one on before his eyes were even open, sometimes the headache would be gone by the time John made tea. 

“We’ll be on the next boat.” The sharp snap of a mobile closing, but the static continued. 

John had told him about the morning sickness with Emily, how he'd eat a cracker before his eyes were even open, and that seemed to keep the nausea at bay. He'd gotten the idea from another omega, and even after the morning sickness had passed, he continued to do it because it reminded him of Sherlock's nicotine patches. 

John. 

_I’m going to lose him._

The call was over, but there was still static on the line. Impossible…which meant it wasn’t static that Sherlock heard. 

Sherlock began to wake up. 

Rough ground under his cheek, under the palms of his hands, fingers scrabbling in the dirt, curled around the gravel, dust and sharp edges of rocks cutting against his skin. Smell of woodfire, smoke, and the crack of timbers breaking, glass shattering. His legs were cold, but his head and hands were hot and cold in turns, as if the heat source wasn't steady. His hair rustled in the light breeze. 

Sherlock opened his eyes, and saw the orange light reflected on the grey gravel. His mind was already racing, processing, moving— 

_I will burn you._

Sherlock's arms were shaking, but he managed to push himself off the gravel anyway, and stared at the house. The fire licked at the windows, smoke poured out of the seams. It cracked and sputtered and roared and for one brief, blessed moment, Sherlock's brain stopped functioning, stopped deducing, stopped _everything_ , and he stared at the house on fire, unable to breathe lest the ash in the air choke him. 

It was, in a way, beautiful. The empty cottage, set among the trees, the smoke drifting lazily up to the nighttime sky... 

The scream shattered the illusion. 

_I will burn the heart out of you._

_John._

_I’m going to lose him._

Sherlock's feet were unsteady, but he ran, stumbling over the gravel. Up the two steps to the porch, and he grasped the doorknob, feeling the warmth through his leather gloves. It didn't matter; the door didn't budge, and Sherlock kicked it, uselessly, and ran to the window leading to the front sitting room. He used his elbow and broke through the glass with a shatter. The fire inside, now fueled with fresh air, rose with sudden energy, and when it died down enough, Sherlock reached in to slide the window open. 

The walls were on fire; the room glowed with it, the chairs where he'd sat earlier that evening with Mrs Moriarty were strangely untouched. Had it been hours? Minutes? The teacups were still on the coffee table, though in the heat of the room, the tea evaporated slowly away, and the room still smelled strongly of the rose petals and sage she'd thrown into the fireplace. 

" _John_!" shouted Sherlock. "JOHN!" 

There was a faint pounding from somewhere in the house, and Sherlock started to follow it, down the remembered layout toward the bedroom. _One bedroom, one bath, windows in each_. The heat, entering the hallway, was worse. The fire crackled and popped, and Sherlock thought he could feel it tickling the back of his neck. His hands sweated inside the leather gloves. His heart pounded and he could hear the rushing in his ears that might have been the fire creeping up on him, and might have been the wind as he fell. 

“John!” he bellowed, and heard the pounding again, feet hitting the floor, and he reached the bedroom door just as it opened, and John stumbled out, and threw a punch at his nose. 

Sherlock ducked just in time, and tackled John against the doorframe, still untouched by fire. John let out a grunt, and his hands wrapped around Sherlock’s shoulders, holding him tight. “You,” he gasped, his voice raspy and thick with smoke. “Why the hell did you come _back_?” 

John was warm. He was burning. Not his skin, but something under his skin - Sherlock pushed up and held John down by his shoulders. He could see the fire in John's eyes, tempered by something else that didn't fit him quite right. Fear, or indecision, or disappointment. Something odd and unpredictable, and Sherlock didn't look at John's eyes again, because seeing the strangeness there, he remembered Mrs Moriarty's words: 

_You could see the moment when his heart broke._

It was easy to imagine the expression on John’s ever-changeable face. The slow sinking of his mouth, the cheeks hallowing in, the eyes closing. But now John stared at him, eyes hot, mouth fixed, and John struggled against his hold, fought against the pheromones that Sherlock could smell even with the fire burning around them. 

"You wanker," said John, and gave him a hard shove, nearly toppling Sherlock over into the fire. "Is it true?" 

"John, this isn't the time.” 

“ _Is it true_?” 

Sherlock shook John, hard. “The house is coming down, John. Where is Emily?" 

John stared at him, breathing hard. “In the loo with Jane.” 

There was a crack in the ceiling above them; a shower of sparks fell around them, and both men ducked, subconsciously turning their faces into each other’s coats for safety. John shuddered as Sherlock held him, and Sherlock breathed in John’s scent. 

_Bloody hell_. It was all Sherlock could do to pull away from John, when the sparks settled, and he moved his hands to hold John’s face in between them. 

“Hate me if you have to, but help me get her out first,” said Sherlock, low. 

“I can’t,” whispered John, and gave another shudder. “It’s coming on too fast – I can’t think—” 

Sherlock gave him a shake. “You. Can,” he said, demanding and fast. “John. You have to do this. You are not and have never been your biology, don’t you _dare_ give in to it now.” 

John took in a shaky breath. “Why should I listen to you now?” 

“Because I did it _for_ you, even if you’ll never believe anything else of me again,” said Sherlock, and leaned in to give John a kiss. 

His lips were hot and dry, and John reached up into the kiss and gave as good as he got. For half a moment, Sherlock actually believed it would work; they’d get out of the house, Emily would be safe, they’d find a quiet place away from the flames and give in to the fire that was already burning between them. And they’d come out on the other side, scorched and sore and maybe a little crisp at the edges, but they’d be all right. They’d have to be. 

_I’m going to lose him_ , thought Sherlock desperately, and clung on tight. 

And then John shoved him again, and turned back into the bedroom. Sherlock followed and shut the door behind him. John was already across the room and in the little lavatory, talking quickly. 

“There’s no time,” he said. “Jane, you have to take Emily and go.” 

Sherlock stood at the doorway and saw Jane and Emily crouched in the tub, Emily awake and shaking in the wet towels. 

Emily's eyes opened wide. "Papa," she said, and reached up for him. 

He took her, and ran his hands over her hair, down her shoulders. She was fine. She was perfect. She was coughing, and her voice sounded horrible, and she'd probably breathed in too much smoke, and her eyes were watering, not from sorrow or joy but the irritants in the air. Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and held her tight, kissed her hair and tasted the ash. 

“The window,” said Sherlock. 

“Jane, I think you can fit,” said John. He scanned the room and picked up the heavy metal rubbish bin. “Cover your faces.” 

Sherlock bent over Emily, pressing her face into his coat. She coughed, breathing in the smoke embedded there. Two bangs as John hit the glass with the bin, and then a crack and a smash as the bin broke through. Sherlock looked up, and saw John clear the rest of the open window of the jagged bits of glass, tossing them to the side of the house, where they’d be less likely to be underfoot. 

“Go to the woods,” Sherlock told Jane. “Hide in the trees – help is coming soon. Wait until you see Lestrade or Mycroft. Don’t come out until you see them and go straight to them. They’ll keep you safe. Do you understand?” 

"Yes," said Jane, and Sherlock saw the gashes in her skin, the bandage on her wrist, and the hesitancy in her eyes, when she looked at him, somewhat more cautious and reserved than what he'd seen in John. 

“Jane,” said John, and Jane stood and went to the window. John helped her up onto the sill and into the cold air outside. The glass crunched under her feet when she landed. 

“You did great,” said John to Jane, and touched her cheek, where a bit of glass had caught her skin. “I’m going to write you a hell of a recommendation.” 

Jane’s laugh was half cough. “I wish—” 

“Don’t wish,” said John roughly. “Get your wrist seen to as soon as you can.” 

Jane nodded, and Sherlock put Emily up on the windowsill. 

“Wait,” said John, and leaned forward to press his forehead against Emily’s. 

“I love you,” he said softly to the little girl. “So. Much.” 

“Daddy—” 

“Go with Jane,” said John quickly, and Sherlock knew it wasn’t just the smoke that made his voice sound so awful. He kissed Emily on the forehead. “You are so brave, and I am so proud of you.” 

“You’ll be fine,” Sherlock told her, and turned her around, legs out the window. The air was cold when Emily slipped out of his hands. Jane caught her, and wrapped her in her arms. 

“Papa—” 

“We’ll be there as soon as we can,” Sherlock told her, and hoped he wasn’t lying. He looked at Jane. “Run. Get _out_ of here.” 

“The window’s too small for you,” she said. 

“We’ll find another way,” said Sherlock. “ _Run_.” 

Jane nodded, and said nothing – she simply turned and ran straight into the dark night, and was quickly enveloped by the smoke surrounding the house. 

Sherlock watched her go, and then turned to John, standing behind him. 

"Tell me it was a lie," said John quietly. He wasn't shaking, but his eyes were fever-bright. 

"It was a lie," said Sherlock. He grabbed John's hand to pull him from the lav and back into the burning house. "We have to find a way out." 

John shook off his hand, and Sherlock reached for it again. 

"Don't touch me," hissed John, and fell against the wall, his head pushed back and neck exposed. The pheromones hit Sherlock in a wave, and he took a step and pushed up against John, pressing the length of his body against him. John was warm, and smelled so. Bloody. _Good_. 

"Your estrus," said Sherlock, and for a moment, his mind clouded over. "It’s started, it’s really started." 

"I don't—" John closed his eyes. "Christ, I can smell you. Fuck. Bloody buggering _fuck_." 

Sherlock lowered his head and pressed his lips to the skin below John's ear. Burnt sugar and salt. 

"No," said John, weakly, a thousand miles distant, and Sherlock felt his arms pushing against him. "No. Sherlock. The house is on fire." 

"Sod the house.” 

"SHERLOCK," shouted John, and it was more forceful this time. Sherlock raised his head, and saw John's dilated pupils, the tension in his face, and heard the crack of beams as the fire began working at the foundations of the house. 

"We have to go," said Sherlock, but he didn't move. 

John nodded, staring up at him. "We're going to burn." 

Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his mouth onto John's, in a brutal, possessive kiss. 

_I'm going to lose him._

"I'm not going to lose you," Sherlock heard himself say into John's mouth, and John gripped Sherlock's head between his hands. 

"Shut up," he growled. "Shut up shut up shut _up_." 

"I fought too hard for you. I _died_ for you, I can't lose you now." 

John pushed up into him, his hands at Sherlock's coat, pushing it off his shoulders, reaching under his collar and ripping the cloth away. 

"You're mine, you've always been mine, you're always going to _be_ mine." 

John fixed his mouth on Sherlock's neck and bit, _hard_ , not enough to break the skin, but enough to remind him of...of John, of wanting, of needing, of the fear and the anger and the betrayal. Sherlock shouted out, threw his head back, wrapped his hands around John's biceps and gripped them tightly. John's teeth scraped at his skin, and then John began to suck where he'd bitten. 

"It'll all be for nothing," gasped Sherlock. "John. _John_. The house is burning down." 

"Let it," said John, and he slid his mouth down from Sherlock's neck, to his chest, exposed now to the heat. "I don't fucking _care_." 

Sherlock let his hands skim up John's arms to rest on his shoulders, circle to the back of his neck. The room was growing hotter, glowing orange and yellow - or maybe that was just his skin, beginning to answer John's; his own frenzy, beginning to respond to John's heat. His cock was stiffening, his breath caught in his throat, and the scents in the air - no longer woodsmoke and burning sage, but burnt sugar and baking bread, and the heady, musky smell of something else, something that was just the two of them. 

"I dreamed about you," said John. "Every night, I closed my eyes—" 

Sherlock closed his eyes, could still see the orange tint to everything, felt John rip at his trousers, heard a button hit the wall as it popped off. 

"You were on a tightrope. You balanced there and told me lies. You never said her name." 

"I didn't know it," said Sherlock, and John paused, his breath on the fabric above Sherlock's cock. 

"You couldn't hear me shout your name," said John. "When I was on the street, you about to jump - I shouted for you." 

"I heard you." 

"You didn't look at me." 

"John. I _heard_ you." 

"You didn't—" 

John ripped Sherlock's pants away, and settled his mouth on his cock, taking it all in. Sherlock cried out, and his legs gave way. He fell to the floor, with John above him. Somewhere in the front of the house, something shattered and fell, a room caving in on itself. 

" _John_." 

"It's not—" John pulled his mouth off Sherlock's cock, and shoved at his trousers. They moved sluggishly, and Sherlock reached up to help push and pull them down, out of the way. John didn't hesitate; he sank down on top of Sherlock's cock, a quick gasp as Sherlock slid inside. His eyes closed, and Sherlock reached up to cup his hand around John's cheek. 

John batted his hand away, grabbed Sherlock's wrists, and pushed Sherlock to lay flat on the floor. "Fuck you," he said, eyes closed, throat raw. "Fuck you, _fuck you_." 

“Yes,” gasped Sherlock. 

John began to move, up and down, slowly and then growing faster, each mimicked thrust in time with his words. "How...could...you...do...that?" 

"John..." 

"I... _hated_...you...." 

" _John_." 

"You...abandoned...me..." 

" _No_." 

"You...abandoned... _her_..." 

"John, I'm—" 

John let out a cry, and collapsed on top of Sherlock, whose hips took over the motions. He wrapped his arms around John and rolled until John was under him, and he was close - he could feel the knot just starting, and just three more thrusts...two...one— 

"NO!" howled John, and pushed him off. " _The house is coming down_." 

It was. The air was orange, not from frenzy, but from flame. The walls were on fire now, the flames licking at the bed they'd completely ignored, the carpet around them beginning to smolder. There wasn't enough time for a knot; there wasn't enough time for anything. Sherlock's eyes were glazed; he could barely think straight. John went to all fours, coughing and choking, and crawled to the window. 

"Nailed shut," croaked Sherlock, and coughed, barely able to breathe. 

"Fuck it," said John, and got to his feet. He put his arms around the dollhouse, and began to lift it. 

"Emily's—" 

John turned to him, and his eyes were filled with something Sherlock didn't recognize. "Don't. Say. Her. Name." 

Hate. It was hate. 

Sherlock crawled over, arms shaking. "You can't do this yourself." 

John shoved Sherlock to the side. "I've _always_ done this by myself." 

John lifted the dollhouse, and with a grunt and a shout, threw it at the window. 

The glass shattered, the cross-beams broke, and the fire behind them roared with the sudden influx of carbon dioxide. 

John fell to his knees, and Sherlock lifted him up. 

"Come on," he said, and dragged John to the window, shoving him out onto the broken glass below. He crawled after him, and barely missed falling on top of the prone man. 

They were outside. The fire chased them through the open window, and Sherlock, still coughing, began to drag John away, half dragging himself as he went. 

It wasn't until they were so far from the house that the air was cold on their skin that Sherlock collapsed into the grass, John beside him. He felt at John's neck for a pulse, and once he located it, he collapsed beside him. 

"John." 

"Finish," said John, eyes still closed. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock... _finish_ what you started." 

Sherlock didn't hesitate. He rolled on top of John, and slid home. Despite the long minutes, despite the crack of the house as it collapsed behind them; despite the scream of the sirens from the road and the way John lay still underneath him, Sherlock's knot began to grow, filling John and joining them together, and once done, Sherlock pushed his nose and mouth into the crook of John's neck, and breathed the mix of fire and dirt and sweat and burnt sugar. 

They said nothing, in the long minutes that they were locked together. John remained still, his breaths shallow but growing more steady. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, stinging from what he was sure was smoke and ash. He knew, as he always knew, the moment before the knot released, and in that moment, he pressed his open mouth against John's neck, the teeth lightly grazing on his skin, just where he'd bitten him once, four years before. 

John turned his face away, and Sherlock's knot released them both. 

In silence, they fixed their clothing again. The house still burned, but the roof had collapsed; the flames danced, softer now, and beyond them, Sherlock saw the flashing lights of the fire engines, the police cars, and to the side, a long, black limousine, waiting for them to appear. 

"John," said Sherlock. 

"You lied to me," said John. 

Sherlock's fingers paused as he buttoned his shirt. "I…may have omitted a few details." 

“When did you know about her?” John’s voice was quiet, but Sherlock could hear the tension beneath the words. The tightness, the dangerous threat that if he said one false word, John would know, and John would eviscerate him. 

Sherlock found his voice again, somehow. "The minute before I jumped. I knew." 

John nodded, and put his hands in his pockets. "Did you know when she was born?" 

"No. I knew - I knew she would exist. I didn't know anything about her. Just...the fact of her." 

John got to his feet, still staring at the house. "You never found a way to get word to me, to let me know you were alive, to give me some kind of _hope_ that you’d come back.” 

Sherlock frowned. “The bond – the bond should have told you I was alive.” 

“I haven’t felt the bond in nearly four years,” said John quietly. “That happens, sometimes, with pregnancy; it’s there, but you can’t feel it.” 

Sherlock didn’t move. “You didn’t tell me that.” 

“I guess we’re even,” said John. 

Sherlock looked over at John. “You can’t be angry with me.” 

“Oh, can’t I?” 

“John, we’ve been over this. I had to jump. Moriarty was going to kill you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson if I didn’t die. Faking my death was the only way to keep you safe.” 

“Oh, I get that,” said John. 

“You forgave me for the deception months ago.” 

John shook his head, eyes open and staring at the sky. “This is different.” 

“This…this….what?” said Sherlock, and maybe it was the frenzy that fueled the anger now. Sherlock turned to face John, his voice going rough. “You can forgive me saving your life, but you can’t forgive me saving Emily’s? Because I saved her, too, John, or did you forget – if Moriarty had killed you, Emily would have died with you, before either of us ever had the chance to know her. Do you really think I was going to risk either of your lives because of _sentiment_?” 

“I’m not talking about sentiment—” 

“Then what _are_ you talking about, John? You act as if it was so easy for me to walk off into the sunset, knowing that I was leaving you to raise our baby alone. I wish it _had_ been that easy. You might not have felt the bond, John, but _I did_ , every sodding day we were apart. I could point what direction you were in, I could tell you were unhappy, and I could tell when you started to get better, started smiling and feeling a little bit of joy, and oh, look, that was about seven months after I’d left. What a fucking good thing I left you with Emily, John, because without her, I don’t know if I would have had you to come home to after all. 

“So, no, I don’t regret for one minute that I jumped off that roof, and I don’t regret that I couldn’t tell you I was alive, because it would have meant putting you and Emily right back in danger, as if I’d never left. I did what I had to do to keep you safe, it’s what I’ve _always_ done, and Emily’s existence, and my knowledge of it, changes _nothing_.” 

“No, Sherlock – it changes _everything_. You _abandoned_ her—” 

“To save her.” 

“You could have contacted me, let me know you were alive.” 

“You can’t lie, John – you would never have been able to keep it secret, and keeping it secret kept you safe.” 

“You let me tell her you were _dead_.” 

“Because at any moment I _could_ have been.” 

“You’ve been lying since the moment you came home,” shouted John. “You let me go on thinking you didn’t know about her—” 

“And look at how well you’re taking the information!” scoffed Sherlock. “So level-headed and rational.” 

“ _She’s my daughter_ ,” said John between clenched teeth. “I can forgive anything you do to me, Sherlock. I can’t forgive what you’ve done to her.” 

“And what, precisely, have I done to her, except for try to keep her safe?” snapped Sherlock. 

John held up his hand, and counted it out on his fingers. “A thousand days, Sherlock, without you. Two Christmases without you. Two birthdays, without you. Three Alpha’s Days, two of which she’d come home from nursery asking why she didn’t have an Alpha, and I’d have to explain and show your pictures and tell her stories and wonder what the hell I was going to do the day she started asking about how you’d died. Three holidays by the sea, without you. Family portraits, without you. First words, first steps, first solid foods, all without you.” 

John took a shaking breath and started to blink faster; his chest heaved, and he continued, his voice shaking. “You missed so much, Sherlock. You missed the best parts of her life, and you’re never going to get another chance to see them. You should have been there. You were _supposed_ to be there. And you weren’t, and the only thing that kept you from them was _you_. You might have jumped to save our lives, but you stayed away to save yours.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, briefly. When he opened them again, he saw the hard expression on John’s face. “You’re being unreasonable.” 

“Then I’m fucking unreasonable! I’m sorry, I can’t be anything else. I forgave you for leaving me. I get why you did it. I do, I really do. You had Moriarty bearing down and threatening to kill everyone you loved, and the only way out was to fake your death. What I can’t forgive, Sherlock, is that you abandoned Emily, too. You missed _three. Fucking. Years_. She should have had two of us, Sherlock, and you couldn’t even let her know you were alive.” 

John bent over, coughing. Sherlock watched him, trying to keep calm. 

"I tried to delete her," said Sherlock. The house cracked as another wall fell in. "I couldn't. I couldn't delete either of you. It might have been easier." 

One last flame reached up to the sky, winked at the stars above, and fell back to earth. The house smoldered quietly, destroyed. 

"Yeah," said John finally. "It would have been." 

John watched the house for a moment. Sherlock couldn’t look at him. 

“I really, honestly thought you were dead,” said John as the roof continued to cave in. “I really, honestly thought you didn’t know about her. Because how could anyone know about Emily, and not want to be with her? You coming back, that was my miracle, Sherlock. All I ever wanted was for you to know her. Not to know about her, and not know _her_. There’s a difference.” 

“I know there is,” said Sherlock. 

“The bond…” John paused. “When I lost the bond, I knew you were dead. It was like I’d pushed it out right alongside Emily. Only thing that really brings it back is close proximity, or sex. Five months living with you again – I still couldn’t feel it.” 

“John,” said Sherlock, low. 

“And you wouldn’t touch me. For five months.” John closed his eyes and sighed. “And now….I can feel the bond again. I’m tied to you again. Damn you, Sherlock.” 

John started the walk around the burning house, back to the fire engines, where Lestrade and Emily and Mycroft were waiting. Sherlock watched him go.


	8. Chapter 8

John's arms shook when they placed the bundle in his arms, wrapped tightly in a blanket. It might have been from exhaustion, it might have been relief. Every muscle in his body quaked, and even though the sweat had been wiped away while he waited for her to be cleaned up, he still felt damp, and wasn’t sure if he wanted sleep or a shower more. 

Looking at her now, the room faded into the background; the nurses as they did whatever nurses do, and he forgot about the beeps and whistles of the various monitors and instruments, the thinness of the hospital mattress and the scratchy, stiff fabric of the gown he wore. None of it mattered. Just her. 

The small pink cap was pulled low over her head, nearly at her eyes, and she frowned and moved her nose. John recognized the expression; it was the same one Sherlock had worn when something didn't sit right. Wedged on a too-tiny face, it made John smile, and he let out a soft, gasping laugh, and pushed the cap back. Her face relaxed and she yawned, before smacking her lips a few times. 

"Hello, Emily," whispered John, his voice hoarse, though whether it was from the lump in his throat or the noises he couldn't really remember making, he didn't know. 

Movement next to him, as Harry leaned over for a look. "Is that her name?" 

"Emily Holmes Watson," said John. 

Harry smiled, and reached over to touch the baby's cheek. "Mycroft’s going to have words about that." 

"He can have them all." 

The baby opened her eyes, and John's heart fell, just a little. The disappointment was fleeting, but he still had to acknowledge it. 

"Your eyes," said Harry. 

"Yeah." Lump, then. Definitely a lump in his throat. 

"Oh, John," said Harry, and put her arm around him. She rested her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." 

"It's okay," whispered John. He smiled at the baby. "It's okay. You'll have other things of your father's. It's okay that you don't have his eyes." 

* 

He dreamed, in the midst of all the buzzing and beeping and rustling. He could still hear it, but somehow it didn't matter as he watched Sherlock bounce on the tightrope. 

"I named her Emily," said John, and Sherlock stretched out his arms, fingers splayed and moving. 

"John," said Sherlock, "there are 243 types of tobacco ash, stemming from 14 distinct varieties of tobacco plant." 

"She's a little small, five pounds thirteen ounces, but the nurses assure me that babies of male omegas tend to be smaller, and of course, her gestation wasn't exactly normal." 

"There are 196 ways to combine them, assuming you use equal amounts of two types of leaf, but of course there are an infinite number of ways to mix various blends, which means that 243 is perhaps a rather absurdly low estimate." 

"She's fine, though. She's healthy and her APGARs were 7 and 9 - I know you'd be sorry they weren't perfect, but really, those are very good." 

"There's only so much you can manage to catalog, when you don't have access to all the different types of cigarettes in the world. I have had some trouble obtaining one or two of the smaller Chinese types of cigarettes, and I understand there is an outfit in South America which is very exclusive, so my analysis is yet incomplete." 

"We're still in hospital - just a few more days. I can't say I like staying here, but - I don't really want to go back to 221B yet. It's been so quiet the last few months, just me and Mrs Hudson downstairs, and - it's been all right. I can pretend you're just in one of your strops, curled up on the couch, and as long as I don't look at the couch, I can believe it." 

"What is most intriguing is the changes in tobacco ash over time. Because of course, there are far more chemicals being used in the manufacture of cigarettes than there were in past decades, so that ash from a hundred years ago could be markedly different from ash found today." 

"She's beautiful, Sherlock. Her ears, and her nose, and the way her mouth purses when she's sleeping. And her feet, they're so tiny. She splays her hands out—" 

John held out his hand, fingers splayed, and on the tightrope, Sherlock stretched his hand out as well, staring at the back of it before him. 

"I think I might be falling in love with her," said John. 

"I think I might be cataloguing tobacco ash until the end of time," replied Sherlock, still staring in wonder at his hand. 

"I wish you could see her. Just once." 

"I wish I had until the end of time, to keep at it." 

"I know you're dead," said John, and the words caught in his throat. He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. "I've known it for months. I thought I could feel the bond still, but it was Emily, not you. And I thought I'd feel it again, when she was born, but - it's not there. It's gone. I can't feel you anymore. You're not there to feel." 

"I feel," said Sherlock, and stopped. 

"I know you can't hear me, can't even talk to me, I know you're just a part of a dream and that the tightrope is a stupid symbol that has something to do with how you died, I don't even know what because I've never been brave enough to look it up. And I know it's better, that you didn't know about her, because it means that it was easier for you to do it. But...I wish you could just turn and look at me, just once, Sherlock, and tell me how glad you are that there's something of you left in this world. Because I want so badly for there to be something of you in her, Sherlock. All I want, Sherlock, is for you to say her name. Just the once. Just so I know that it was _worth_ it." 

"John." 

John's breath caught in his throat as Sherlock turned to look at him, the first time that Sherlock ever looked at him in the dreams. John held himself absolutely still. 

"I named her Emily," he said, and his voice went out like a rocket. It didn’t matter if Sherlock heard him or not; understood him or not; knew if Emily existed or not. All it mattered, in that moment, was that John at least _try_ to tell him. "And she's small, and she's perfect, and she's yours." 

Sherlock smiled, and opened his mouth to speak, but before the words were said, John woke up. 

* 

It was a week before he could return to 221B, and while most of the other new parents were aching to go home, John wished he could stay in hospital longer. At least he had the week - female omegas were sent home after a day or two. Males had a longer recovery time, needed the extra attention and bedrest, and as John still had trouble sitting up for more than twenty minutes, he wasn't complaining. It wasn't that he was afraid of being with Emily on his own - though he wasn't entirely sure what one _did_ with an infant so small - but a baby on Baker Street? He still had trouble picturing it. 

The real downside of the hospital was the noise. Nurses forever popping in and out, other new mothers and fathers crying out and their babies crying with them, and the soft sounds of Emily breathing in her plastic bassinet. She liked to smack her lips, and kept working her right arm out of the swaddle, resting it by her ear. Her fingers curled, and John would work his own finger into her hand, so that he could imagine her holding it. He thought she might have tightened her grip when he did that. It was probably imagination; she slept more than she was awake, but when she was awake, her eyes were wide open, staring at him, crossing and uncrossing, trying to see his face. 

She looked at _everyone_ , intently. She might not have Sherlock's eyes, but she clearly saw - no, _observed_ with them. 

"I have to tell you about your father," John whispered to the sleeping baby. "Once upon a time, there was a man. And he was brilliant, and he was flawed, and he was mine." 

John closed his eyes, and wondered what Sherlock would have wanted Emily to know. Everything, no doubt. How to construct a mind palace. How to tell the difference between 243 types of tobacco ash. How to look at someone's thumb and instantly know what they'd had for breakfast that morning. 

John didn't know how to do any of that. 

"Emily," said John, opening his eyes. "I'm going to tell you something very important. I know you're sleeping, so you'll have to take it in by osmosis. The earth, Emily. It revolves around the sun. When you're firing a gun, there's always a kickback. Pin and chip machines are more aggravating than they're worth. Your uncle is a scary, scary man. Don't eat the skull in the sitting room. Never mess with the sock index. And...yeah. That's it for now. We'll have another lesson tomorrow." 

John thought Emily might have squeezed his finger in response. Or maybe in thanks. 

* 

Greg and Anna Lestrade visited him in the hospital. “John,” Anna said warmly, and gave John a hard hug. “Oh, I’ve been worried.” 

“I’m fine,” said John, and he smiled at her. “Look, the liposuction worked!” 

Anna laughed and blinked back the tears in her eyes. 

“Stop that,” said John, and Anna wiped at her eyes. 

“She cried the whole way over,” said Lestrade from the end of the bed, where he was looking at Emily. “Well, shrimp, I’m happy to say you take after your mum after all.” 

“Oi,” said John, which was all he could manage. Anna’s tears were catching. 

“Imagine the nose,” mused Lestrade. 

“Greg, stop it,” said Anna firmly. “Say hello to John, we’ve come to see him as well.” 

“Hello, John,” said Lestrade, still looking at Emily. 

“Hello, Greg,” said John, and Anna took his hand and squeezed it. 

“Men,” she said fondly, and gave John’s cheek a friendly kiss. 

* 

Harry brought him back to 221B, but she didn't go in. "I'm sorry, I have to get to work," she apologized. "I'll stop by afterwards, yeah? You'll be all right?" 

"Yeah, we'll be fine," said John, and he stepped out of the taxi onto the pavement. It felt good to stand up, to feel the cold February air on his cheeks after a week in a warm hospital room. He breathed in it, and then reached through the door to take Emily's carrier from his sister. "Mrs Hudson's here. She said she'd help out a bit." 

Harry nodded, but the worry didn't leave her eyes. "John - you'll ring me, right? If something - if you need _anything_ , you ring me." 

"I will," promised John. He straightened the blanket over Emily. "We'll be fine, Harry. Don't worry." 

"Sorry, job description," said Harry, and she reached out to brush her fingers against Emily's blanket. "Love you." 

"Love you too," said John, almost surprised. 

"Not you, berk," said Harry. Her voice was thick, but before John could comment on it, she slammed the taxi door closed and it pulled away into traffic. John watched her go, holding the carrier close to his not-quite-flat stomach. He still wasn't sure that having Harry at the hospital with him had been the best idea - not with Harry's own history with Clara - but there hadn't been anyone else he wanted. Not anyone alive, anyway. And she seemed all right. He hoped she was really going to work, and not to the nearest pub. 

Mrs Hudson's voice broke into his reverie. "John Watson, get in here," she scolded. "Keeping that baby outside in this weather!" 

"Mrs Hudson," said John, and he kissed the landlady's cheek as soon as he was inside the warm entryway. He put Emily's carrier down, and let Mrs Hudson coo over the baby while he carried his overnight bag up the stairs to 221B. He went carefully at first - he hadn't done stairs in a week, and expected things to chafe, but it wasn't too awful. The extra few days in hospital made sense, he supposed. 

Going down was a bit trickier. Carrying the baby carrier, though... 

"Mrs Hudson, can I leave the carrier down here?" asked John. "I'm not sure - on the stairs—" 

"Of course," said Mrs Hudson. "Just here in the corner, out of the way. I'll cover it with a towel to keep the dust off." 

"Ta," said John, relieved. "You can take her out, you know." 

"I didn't want to presume," said Mrs Hudson. "And the little lamb is sleeping." 

"We discussed this at the hospital. You're her gran, it's fine," said John firmly, and Mrs Hudson blushed, beaming, and tried to work the buckles fastening Emily inside, but her hands shook with emotion, and John had to help, even though he wasn't all that comfortable with them either. 

"They're so _big_ ," said Mrs Hudson, fussing. "And she's so _small_." 

"She'll grow," said John. "So I hear." 

Mrs Hudson lifted up the baby, careful to support her head, and soon had her in the crook of her arm. "Hello, little one, welcome home." 

John grinned. "Mrs Hudson, you're crying." 

"Oh, you," scoffed Mrs Hudson. "Look at us, standing in the entryway like a pair of ninnies, and there's a draught and us with a newborn. I've left some soup on your stove, are you hungry?" 

"Starving," said John, because he was. 

"Then off you go, let's get some food into you," said Mrs Hudson, and even holding Emily, she prodded him up the stairs. It was slow going, the third time tackling them, and John was never so grateful to be home. 

He looked askance at the hard wooden chairs at the kitchen table, and gingerly sat down. It wasn't terrible, but he half wished he could sit on his own armchair in the sitting room instead. A pillow would probably help. Later. For now, John put his weight on his left side, and concentrated on the soup, which was both the hottest and most delicious thing he'd possibly eaten in his entire life. Mrs Hudson sat across from him, talking to him and Emily in turn. 

"You could put her down," said John. "There's a bassinet in my bedroom." 

Mrs Hudson ignored him. "How long is your parental leave?" 

"Two months. I wasn't full-time for very long, or I'd be able to take more." 

"You're meant to have at least three," said Mrs Hudson sharply. 

"I don't have enough for three," said John. 

Mrs Hudson was quiet for a moment. "Enough leave, or enough money?" 

John smiled faintly. "Either." 

Mrs Hudson pursed her lips. "John." 

"It's all right, Mrs Hudson," said John quickly. "I've got enough in savings. Sherlock - there was an inheritance. I haven't touched it. But it's not mine. It's Emily's, and I need to save that for her education. You know Sherlock wouldn't have wanted to skimp on that." 

"Then why—" 

"Because I have to pay for everything else somehow. Emily shouldn't shoulder the burden. I'm the parent, I need to provide. I'm the only parent she _has_ , I have to." 

"Prideful," said Mrs Hudson. 

John shrugged. "A little." 

"Don't be too proud to ask for help." 

"If help comes in the form of soup, then I'll drop my pride every week," said John, scraping the bottom of the bowl. Emily began to wake, wiggling and blinking, smacking her lips in the way that John had begun to recognize. 

"She's hungry," he said, explaining as he stood, and Mrs Hudson handed him the baby. 

"I'll do the washing up," she said, and John went to sit in the armchair to nurse. 

It was later, after he put Emily in her bassinet, that John sat heavily down on the bed, looking at the small girl, her tummy full and round, her hand comfortably by her ear. 

"I can't do this," he whispered. 

"John Watson," said Mrs Hudson from the doorway, softer now, but still scolding. "What are you going on about?" 

"This," said John, and he placed his hands on the edge of the bassinet. "Alone." 

Mrs Hudson waited while John took a breath and got to his feet. He walked through the kitchen and into the sitting room, rubbing his temples with his fingers, staring around the room and all the flotsam and jetsam collected within. 

"She's actually here," he said aloud. "She's...in the bedroom sleeping. I don't know where she came from." 

Mrs Hudson waited for him to sit on the armchair again. "Have you talked to Mycroft yet?" 

"No," said John. "I...I don't know what to say." 

Mrs Hudson frowned. "John." 

"I know I need to tell him," said John shortly. "I just...I can't find the words." 

Mrs Hudson didn't say anything, and John was grateful for that. He stood in front of the bookshelves, the tumble of books shoved in every which way, and read the titles one by one, a sort of calming mechanism. _A Complete Guide to British Birds. The Collected Works of Catullus. The Holy War: Alphas and Betas in the Realm of the Political Sphere._

"You should sleep a little," said Mrs Hudson finally. "I'll be just downstairs if you need me. She’s beautiful, John – she looks just like you.” 

"Cheers, Mrs Hudson," said John hoarsely, eyes still on the book titles, and waited until Mrs Hudson had gone before he collapsed in the armchair, hand covering his eyes. 

He didn't want to sleep. He was weary, not tired, and his muscles twitched as if anxious to get up and walk around the whole of Regent's Park. He was almost tempted to put Emily in a wrap and just go - but the room was comfortable and warm, and he could see the white-washed sky out the windows, and had no desire to leave. 

And anyway, he wasn't sure he could walk quite that far anymore. It'd been months since he'd done anything but waddle. 

John rested his hands on his stomach, still wondering at the extra skin. The doctors said it would go away soon enough - that was one of the trade-offs, the extra weight just dropped right off male omegas within weeks. Female omegas and betas took much longer to return to their original weight, assuming they ever did. But male omegas had greater instances of post-partum, and John knew that was why Mrs Hudson and Harry were worried about him, asked pointed questions about Mycroft and Aurora and fed him soup and made plans for him. 

For a moment, John thought about locking the door to the flat, and bunkering down, and refusing to let either of them in. 

If Mycroft really wanted to know how he was doing, John had no doubt there were cameras still installed in the flat. That Mycroft hadn't even contacted him since the weeks after Sherlock's death gave John every indication that the man considered their brief acquaintance over. 

But. There was one small thread connecting them still, and John was the only one who knew it. And perhaps the people who had known Sherlock the longest – the ones who’d known him when he was small – maybe they would be able to see in Emily what no one else could. 

He pushed himself off the chair and went into the kitchen. It was sparkling, in a way it'd never been since John had moved in. The dishes dripped dry on the drain; there was a hand towel neatly folded on the counter; a shopping list was already begun on the fridge, in Mrs Hudson's handwriting. _Milk, tea, nappies, wipes_. John opened the door, and saw the neat rows of Tupperware, marked with slips of paper describing their contents and reheating instructions. 

_Chicken with rice. Beef with broccoli. Green salad._

John replaced the Tupperwares and closed the fridge, crouching on the kitchen floor, and rested his head against the door. He squeezed his eyes closed and breathed. In, out. In, out. 

John turned to sit on the floor, back against the fridge, and reached for his jacket, hanging on the back of the kitchen chair. His mobile was in the pocket, and John didn't think about it, didn't want to think about it. He flipped it open and found the number still hidden in his memory, and pressed _Call._

The phone rang three times, before he heard Mycroft speak crisply. "John Watson." 

"Mycroft," said John. 

"It's been a while." 

"Yes," said John. "I - there's someone you need to meet." 

* 

John was already at the window when he saw the black car pull up to the kerb. He let the curtain fall back when Mycroft stepped out. After all, Mycroft would already know he was watching. No need to prove the man right. 

Instead, John went into the kitchen to see if the water was hot enough to start steeping the tea. He heard the front door to 221 open - Mycroft, of course, had a key, which was only fitting since he was still paying a good chunk of the rent – but it was a long while before Mycroft began to climb the stairs. John had poured the water over the teabags and was laying out the tray with spoons and sugar before he heard Mycroft knock on the door. John had left it open, and Mycroft stepped inside as John carried the tray into the sitting room. 

Mycroft looked exactly the same as he ever had; bespoke suit, umbrella, tie knotted just so. Only now there was an odd look on his face, and his eyes were wide, darting around the room as if he had just been informed that fairies existed. 

"Hello, Mycroft," said John, conscious of his still-not-entirely-flat stomach, and the stain on his shirt where Emily had spit up. He set the tray down. 

"I admit, this is not quite what I had anticipated," said Mycroft carefully. "When you said there was someone you wanted me to meet." 

John frowned, and then began to chuckle. "Thought I had a new alpha?" 

Mycroft's lips quirked, which was about as close to a smile as John could ever hope to receive for a joke. "The baby carrier in the hall dispelled that thought. Where is she?" 

John didn't even bother to ask how Mycroft knew the baby was a she. "Sleeping in her bassinet." 

He led Mycroft to the bedroom, and sat on the bed, next to Emily's bassinet, while Mycroft stood stock-still at the end of it. His hands rested on the edge, and John glanced between Emily and Mycroft. Mycroft's expression did not change, not one iota - he looked as cool and disinterested as he ever did, his gaze running parallel with his nose. But something in his jaw trembled, just a bit, and John tried not to feel disappointed at the lack of Sherlock in Sherlock's older brother. 

"You can hold her, if you want," said John. 

"Let her sleep," said Mycroft. "Tea, I think." 

John nodded, and they left the room. John fussed with the teabags, keenly aware that Mycroft watched him, took stock of him, was probably deducing the last eight months from the way John moved and breathed. John didn't try to hide anything. There wasn't much point, anyway; he had no doubt that what Mycroft could not deduce, he would work into the conversation and learn anyway. And the only thing John had to hide, he'd left sleeping in her bassinet. 

Right now, John was only glad that Mycroft didn't make any jokes about being mother. John might have thrown something at him. Which was probably why Mycroft didn't make the joke. 

"Go on, then," said John finally, handing Mycroft a mug. He should have pulled out the teacups, but they were fiddly and John was tired of fiddly. Besides, watching Mycroft drink tea from a mug emblazoned with a skull and cross-bones might be the only entertainment he had all day. "I know you have questions." 

"When?" 

"When what? When was she born? Eight days ago. We only came home from the hospital yesterday. Or when did I find out I was pregnant? July. I was a bit preoccupied, you know. Didn't really pay much attention to anything, so it came as something of a shock. Or when was she conceived? You'll laugh, but it was the week before Moriarty's trial began." 

"You were pregnant when—" 

"Yes," said John shortly, not wanting Mycroft to finish. "I didn't know it, though. And neither did Sherlock." 

Mycroft set the mug down, and covered his face with his hands. It was perhaps the most emotional reaction John had ever seen from him, and for a moment, John had no idea what to do. He stared at Mycroft, half expecting the man to burst into sobs, and half expecting him to do exactly what he ended up doing. 

Mycroft lowered his hands, picked the mug back up, and carried on drinking, exactly as if nothing strange had occurred at all. 

"If he had known—" 

"He didn’t. He couldn’t have," said John. "And anyway, I'm not going to play that game. There's a lot of things I don't know, Mycroft. I don't know why he jumped, I don't know why he said all those stupid lies to me first. I don't know why you let the press go on vilifying him when you know - you _know_ – the most important thing they printed was a lie. And even when some of the papers started to question the lie, wonder if there wasn’t something else to the story – you said nothing. Worse, you didn’t even help the people trying to tell the truth. I don't know what you're thinking, I'm pretty sure I don't _want_ to know what you're thinking most of the time. But I know this. I'm glad Sherlock didn't know about Emily, because for whatever reason he jumped, it was a good one. It had to have been. He wouldn't have killed himself unless he had to. I don't believe a fucking thing he said to me from that rooftop. I believe he _hurt_ , Mycroft. Something was hurting him and jumping was the only way to make it stop, and if knowing about Emily would have made that decision harder, then I'm glad he didn't know. So forgive me if I'm glad to have spared him just a little bit of pain." 

Mycroft inhaled, exhaled, and nodded briefly, before lifting the mug of tea to his lips. 

John breathed out. He hadn't shouted, he hadn't lost his temper, and the weight at the back of his shoulders lifted, just a little. 

"What is her name?" 

"Emily," said John. 

"Emily Holmes." It was not a question. 

"Emily Holmes Watson," John corrected him, and drank his tea while Mycroft made a face. 

"I admit I see the benefit of that arrangement," said Mycroft stiffly, and John began to giggle. 

"Thank you for your approval. Obvious you don't like it, though." 

"Not particularly," admitted Mycroft. He set the mug on the table. "I assume you wish to discuss finances." 

"I—" John stared at him. "You're serious. You think I wanted you to come here so we could talk about _money_?" 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Didn't you?" 

"I wanted you to come by so you could meet your niece," said John, and the anger he'd managed to avoid started to rise to the top of the emotional food chain. "I wanted you here because you're her _family_ , and she doesn't have a lot of that, and right now none of it is her _father's_. Even if you don't need her, Mycroft, even if she deserves a better family than you could possibly be to her, she still should have some part of you in her life. And I don't mean your bank accounts. I don't want your money." 

There was a thin wail from the bedroom - Emily waking. John struggled to push himself to his feet. "And neither does she," he added, and marched out of the room to retrieve his daughter, who was still working up to a full-on cry. He scooped her up, a move that had become strangely practiced and familiar in such a short time, and started to sway, clucking in the way he'd already discovered Emily liked best. 

"S'okay, s'okay, I'm here, Daddy's here, you're all right, you're fine, it's all fine, oh my, bit wet, aren't we? Let's get you dry, let you stretch your arms a little. Shh, shh. Shh, shh." 

John took his time unwrapping Emily's swaddler, changing her nappy, and setting her in fresh clothes. He couldn't hear anything from the other room, and hung his head for a moment, wishing that Mycroft would have used the time to leave. But no footsteps, which meant the man was still waiting, sitting in Sherlock's armchair, drinking the tea. 

John took a breath for courage, scooped up Emily again, and went back into the room. 

"Do you want to hold her?" he asked. 

Mycroft's startled expression was everything John had hoped to see. He decided not to wait for an answer, and just walked over and put Emily into her uncle's arms, and took Mycroft's mug of tea in exchange. 

Mycroft stared down at Emily, equal parts horror, shock, and befuddlement. Emily made a face, yawned, and smacked her lips, not caring one whit about him, and John sat back in his armchair and watched as Mycroft slowly moved his arms, cautiously so as not to drop or startle her, trying to find a comfortable way to hold her, and Emily took it in good stride. Mycroft finally settled, one arm crooked under the baby, one hand resting on her stomach, and he glanced up at John, questioning. John nodded, and hid the smile behind a hand. 

"I—" Mycroft swallowed. "I must have held Sherlock when he was born. I don't remember." 

"You were seven, you must remember," said John. 

"I don't. Not when he was this small." 

"Perhaps he sprang from the earth, fully grown," said John, and Mycroft chuckled. 

"No. He was a holy terror as a toddler." Mycroft lifted the baby, just a little, and Emily made a small squeaking sound. "She doesn’t look a thing like him." 

John’s heart fell, just a little. "No?" 

"Perhaps the cheekbones," said Mycroft, and John snorted. "Have you told Mummy?" 

"No," said John. "I...I don't actually know how to contact her. I only met her once." At Sherlock’s funeral, but it didn’t need saying by either of them. 

"Of course," said Mycroft, with a nod. "I can ring her. She'll want to visit." 

"She's welcome. I think I would like her, under better circumstances." 

"She'll want you to move to Sussex." 

"No," said John firmly. "We're staying here. This is where I live. This is home." 

Mycroft nodded. "I cannot promise to fend her off. I will tell her your wishes, but she'll still try." 

"She can try all she likes; I'm not budging." 

"No," said Mycroft thoughtfully. "I never thought you would." 

Mycroft still had not taken his eyes off the baby, and John bit his lip, felt his hand start to shake, just a little. "Mycroft - about the flat." 

"Don't be tiresome, John. You want to stay. Sherlock would have wanted you to stay. You cannot afford the rent on your own, and now you have another mouth to feed." 

"I appreciate the assistance over the last year, but it's a new lease now—" 

"John," said Mycroft, and now he looked up to meet John's eyes. "Do shut up." 

It reminded John so much of Sherlock - the way Mycroft said it, so bored with the conversation, the inflection, the way that his hands curled around Emily. John shut his mouth. It took him another moment to remember his manners and nod. 

"Right. Thanks. Thank you." 

"She will need schooling," said Mycroft. 

"Sherlock had some accounts. I'm going to save those for her." 

"And care. You'll want to return to work." 

"Soon, yes, but there's enough. I can't work full-time for a while yet, anyway." 

"If you should need any sort of assistance for her—" 

"I suspect you'll tell me before I have a chance to ask," said John dryly. 

"Quite so. I trust we will not have to revisit this topic or discuss your hesitance to accept?" Mycroft did not say "unpleasant topic" or "accept assistance", but John heard it anyway. 

"Whatever makes your day go smoother, of course," said John, and managed to not roll his eyes. "But I'm going to point out that she's _my_ daughter, and not just another Holmes for the family collection." 

"John, you wound me," said Mycroft. "Emily would _never_ be considered, as you put it, 'just another Holmes'." 

"Hmm," said John, and covered his mouth again. "I would like some photographs." 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. 

"Of Sherlock. There's a few, from the last couple of years, but...I want her to know him. I need more. Maybe of when he was small? Whatever you can spare." 

"I'll mention it to Mummy. I'm sure she has a few tucked away somewhere." 

"Ta," said John around the knot in his throat, and the men didn't say anything for a little while. 

But when Mycroft left, an hour later, he stood at the door and his throat worked as he tried to speak. "John. I didn't know. I - I had no idea." 

"It's all right," said John. 

"If I had known - I would have—" 

"Mycroft," said John firmly. "No one knew. It's fine." 

"You should have told me sooner," said Mycroft. 

"No," said John, shaking his head slowly, looking Mycroft in the eye. "I couldn't. I'm still not sure I should have told you now. I haven't decided whether or not to trust you yet. But Aurora deserves to know, and I want you to be the one to tell her." 

Mycroft swallowed, raised his umbrella for goodbye, and left without a word. John stood at the top of the stairs and watched him go. Mycroft did not look back once. 

* 

Aurora Holmes arrived the next morning. John was half asleep, having spent most of the night pacing the floors with Emily in a desperate bid to convince her that sleeping was a fun and enjoyable activity. He was partially successful: Emily was convinced, but only as long as moving accompanied the sleeping. Emily slept well. John did not. 

It was difficult to be upset that Mycroft had either given Aurora his key to the flat, or simply had another copy made, particularly when Aurora breezed in, carrying two coffees, and handed one to John, who held onto it as though he’d never seen such a glorious invention in his life. Aurora was followed by three men dressed in dark suits – modern livery, he imagined - carrying boxes. John stood in the center of the sitting room, still in his pajamas, still covered in spit-up and other damp patches that did not bear closer inspection, and watched the parade. The three men deposited the boxes on the kitchen table, and left without a word. Aurora immediately began to unpack the boxes, and after a moment, John realized that she was talking, and probably had been talking since the moment she’d entered the flat. 

“…absolutely ridiculous, John dear, I haven’t any idea why Mycroft thought I would need to sit down, it only meant I had to stand right back up again and there is so much to be done and organized and _managed_ , sitting down is quite the waste of time.” 

“Managed?” echoed John. 

“Not you, dear, but there are quite a lot of things in the attic that I’m having Baldwin sort through today. We had a bit of an issue with moths, and I think the crib may have had some dry rot.” 

“I—” 

“He’ll be washing the linens and sorting through the clothes. I’m sure some of it is appropriate to a baby girl. Mycroft was quite put out about her name, by the way – not the Emily, of course; Emily is quite lovely, but he would rather the Holmes and Watson were reversed.” 

“That was—” 

“Entirely your choice, dear, I’m not disputing it, and frankly, I think you did a very wise thing and I fully support your decision. I told Mycroft the same, you should see the man pout. Exactly the same as when he was six. Oh—” Aurora reached into one of the boxes and pulled out a thick envelope. “The photographs of Sherlock.” 

John took the envelope and opened it. The pile of photographs was at least a half inch thick, and the top-most one showed Sherlock from some ten years previous, his eyes wide and shining, his mouth open in a laugh, his curls just a bit longer and tussled. John stared for a moment, and worked at the lump forming in his throat. There had been a lot of lumps lately. He wondered if he was hormonal. 

“I started right when Mycroft told me last night, the amount of work to be done! One anticipates having a _little_ time to prepare, of course, and not have it sprung on them, but I’m not faulting you, dear, you’ve been an absolute brick, so brave. Now let’s see, where shall we put these?” 

Aurora was still talking, and showed no sign of stopping. John carefully slid the photos – save the top one – back into the envelope and set it on the counter. He slipped from the room, propped the photograph of Sherlock next to his bedside lamp, scooped the sleeping Emily up from her bassinet, and returned to the kitchen. The moment Aurora’s arms were free of books, blankets, and toys, he dropped Emily into her arms. 

Aurora stopped talking. Mid-sentence, even, and John smiled. 

“Meet Emily,” he said. 

“Oh,” said Aurora, and John moved the chair behind her just in time. “ _Oh_.” 

John picked up the cup of coffee again. “I would have thought you drank tea.” 

“I’ve always preferred coffee,” said Aurora absently. “Why do you think the boys drink so much tea themselves?” 

John chuckled and looked into the box, still half-full of books. “Aurora, did you raid a bookstore?” 

“The other boxes are toys,” said Aurora. She leaned in and pressed her nose to Emily’s head. “She looks exactly like him.” 

John wondered if it was possible to form a lump in one’s throat so large that one was choked by it. He sat on the chair next to Aurora, who had not once taken her eyes from Emily. 

“Yeah,” he said finally. “She does.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another split chapter for sexy times ahead. [R-rated version on LJ](http://azriona.livejournal.com/821970.html), NC-17 here on AO3. There will be an epilogue posted next week.

The frenzy was quiet. Maybe some of them were; Sherlock hadn’t experienced that many over time, but the ones he had, both with and without John, had been noisy, exuberant affairs, filled with as much laughter and joy as moans and shouts. The near-silent buzz in the back of his mind, as he watched the house continue to burn, felt wrong. He felt wrong, like he was walking that tightrope John saw him on in his dreams, one misstep leading to disaster. His heart thudded painfully, his entire body tense and waiting to spring. 

A frenzy, interrupted. Sherlock didn’t like it. He felt the itch under his skin, and wondered if this was how John had felt, the last three years, and the buzz grew all the worse. 

Mycroft came to get Sherlock, carrying an orange blanket tucked under his arm. He negotiated the somewhat uneven ground, half his face illuminated by the still glowing fire that had consumed the empty house. Sherlock heard him coming, saw him out of the corner of his eye, but didn't look away from the house. 

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, and shook open the blanket. "Emily and Jane are safe. Lestrade is here. The medics are giving Emily oxygen, and Jane is on her way to the hospital for her wrist." 

"And John?" 

Mycroft settled the blanket over Sherlock's shoulders. "They have given him a suppressant patch, but it will only work for a few hours, and it's not working all that well as it is. He's on oxygen and they're treating the cuts and abrasions as best they can." Mycroft paused. "Sherlock, he'll be fine." 

Sherlock nodded, and gripped the edges of the blanket. He could still see the tinges of color at the edge of his vision. Red, for passion. White, for innocence. Yellow, for friendship. Orange, for shock. 

"I’ve arranged for a car to take you as soon as the medics check you over. You can have oxygen along the way, I'm sure you need it." 

"Take us—" Sherlock coughed. "Take us where?" 

"The estate, of course. I've already let Mummy know. Emily will be looked after while you and John are indisposed." 

Sherlock closed his eyes. "John doesn't want me." 

"Sherlock—" 

"No, it's fine." Sherlock coughed again. "I've lost him, Mycroft. It was always folly to think I could possibly keep him. Not after what I've done." 

Mycroft said nothing for several long minutes, and then Sherlock felt his brother pull up on his arms. 

"The fault was mine," said Mycroft. “Go to your mate. Whether he wants you or not, the fact is that for now, he needs you." 

John sat between the ambulance’s open doors, wrapped in his own orange shock blanket, the oxygen mask over his mouth. Emily was tucked in the blanket, under his arms, a second mask in her hands, oversized for her face. Sherlock watched as the little girl coughed, and John nudged her, said something, and she pulled the mask back up to breathe once, twice, and then let it drop again. 

The lights flashed red and blue, mixed with the red and orange glow of the fire still burning. Sherlock thought of another night, another crime scene, another man sitting on the end of an ambulance, wrapped in an orange blanket for shock. Beginnings and Endings. It seemed appropriate. 

Mycroft persisted in propelling Sherlock forward, past John and Emily. "Lestrade requires a statement." 

"Procedure," said Sherlock, and coughed. 

Lestrade waited by a second ambulance, and as soon as Sherlock had sat, and was handed an oxygen mask, he spoke. "Who was she, Sherlock?" 

"You spoke to John, obviously." 

"Yes, but his memory is somewhat cloudy," said Lestrade dryly. "And even with his patch, I can't get close enough to give him a proper debrief, so you'll have to do." 

"It turns out that Moriarty has a mother." 

"Bloody hell," said Lestrade, and rubbed his face. "Where is she?" 

"She was gone when I woke up. She had one of her thugs knock me out, and they left me outside while the house was set on fire." Sherlock thought of the barely remembered telephone call as he’d woken. There was something there…if only the smoke would clear, he might understand it… 

Lestrade nodded grimly. "With John, Emily, and Jane inside." He studied Sherlock. "You went back in for them." 

"Of course I went back in," snapped Sherlock, irritated with everything, and began coughing with the effort of sounding annoyed. 

"All right, easy." Lestrade turned to look at the house. "Once the fire marshals say it's safe, we'll start examining the remains for clues. I'll keep you updated." 

Sherlock nodded, and held the oxygen mask over his mouth. It was harder to hear Lestrade over the gentle hiss, but easier to breathe. Sherlock wasn't sure he considered either of those things to be benefits. Lestrade sat heavily next to Sherlock, and stared back at the house. 

"So it was Moriarty's mother heading his organization, is that it?" asked Lestrade grimly. 

"Yes," said Sherlock into the mask. 

"Bloody hell," sighed Lestrade, and crossed his arms. "It's all going to start up again, isn't it?" 

"It was never really over." 

"I suppose not." Lestrade glanced over at Sherlock. "That was a stupid thing, running into the house after John and Emily." 

Sherlock bristled, and took a deep breath of oxygen. 

"I would have done the same thing," continued Lestrade. He stood. "Let me know when you're back. I'm going to have more questions." 

Lestrade walked back to the police cars on the other side of the lawn, and as soon as he was gone, Sherlock dropped the mask and headed straight for the ambulance where John and Emily were still sitting, with Mycroft nearby, standing an odd sort of guard. 

"Sherlock," said Mycroft, and John looked up. Sherlock saw the tiredness etched on his face, the weary resignation. John shifted, and Sherlock remembered the way the suppressants made his skin itch. A fast-acting patch wouldn't make estrus any more comfortable. 

In any other place, Sherlock would have wanted detailed descriptions of the difference. Here, he could not say a word. 

"Is Lestrade done with you?" continued Mycroft. 

"For now," said Sherlock. 

"My driver will take all three of you to the estate, until we can secure Baker Street," said Mycroft. "Is there anything you require us to send after you?" 

"Elfin," said John. "A few changes of clothes." 

Mycroft nodded. "Thank you for not arguing." 

"Not much point," said John, tired, and bent over Emily again. "We're going to spend a few days with Granny, Em. What do you think of that?" 

Emily buried her nose into John's shirt, and coughed. 

"Oxygen, love," John murmured, and Emily lifted the mask to her face. 

"Sir," said a paramedic to Sherlock. "If you could just step into the light—" 

"I'm fine," said Sherlock shortly. 

"It's procedure, sir—" 

"Hang your procedure." 

"Sherlock," said Mycroft mildly. 

“I’m _fine_.” 

“Sherlock,” said John quietly, without looking up from Emily, and Sherlock turned to the paramedic. 

“Of the three of us, I was in the house for the least amount of time, approximately twenty-two minutes from entry to when we made our way out the back. The first five minutes were direct smoke inhalation; the rest of the time was in a room of the house that was properly blocked from the majority of the smoke, thereby decreasing the rate of carbon monoxide entering the lungs and bloodstream. As you can see, my mental facilities are working normally, and apart from a slight hoarseness to my voice and a cough, I am showing no other outward signs of distress and do not require medical attention.” 

John lowered his head to Emily’s. Mycroft rolled his eyes. The paramedic did not blink, and instead reached forward, grabbed Sherlock’s hand, and clipped a light probe to his finger. 

“What—” 

“Oxygen levels,” said the paramedic, glancing at the screen on the probe. “According to this, your oxygen levels are low. All three of you need chest x-rays and carbon monoxide testing, and I wouldn’t be surprised if you needed to spend a few hours in a hyperbaric chamber.” 

“I’m _fine_.” 

“We’ll go,” said John, voice muffled by the mask. He pulled it down to speak more clearly, and Sherlock saw something hard in his eyes, something he almost recognized from before Emily, before the fall, before they’d even really known each other so well. Something that said, _Do not mess with what I’m about to say_. “If you think we need time in a hyperbaric chamber, we’ll go – but it needs to be tonight, and it needs to be somewhere near, and after that time, we’re leaving.” 

John’s voice cracked as he finished, and he replaced the mask, and rested his head against Emily’s again. Sherlock half wanted to kiss him, right there. _That_ John, he remembered. That was the John who made impossible shots with pistols from one building to the next. Not even bullets dared argue with that John. 

The paramedic didn’t stand a chance. 

“You’ll find a hyperbaric chamber available at St John and St Elizabeth’s Hospital in St Johns Wood,” said Mycroft casually, almost idly, and Sherlock tried not to smile. 

The paramedic fixed Mycroft a long look, and then back at John. Omega, London-born and bred, girlfriend, cat, enjoyed fishing in spare time, knew perfectly well the locations of hyperbaric chambers in the vicinity, half miffed at being reminded but was somehow resigned to the overruling – and what’s more, not even surprised. 

“Well,” said the paramedic. “He wasn’t half wrong about either of you.” 

“Who?” asked John. 

“Lestrade warned him,” said Sherlock. “Obvious.” 

“Climb in,” said the paramedic. “Traffic to St Johns Wood at this hour on a Saturday night is going to be a nightmare.” 

“Oh,” said Mycroft, and he smiled at Emily. “I think you could use the siren. Much quicker.” 

“It’s not life-threatening.” 

“Well,” said Mycroft. “Not _theirs_.” 

Emily smiled back. 

* 

Dawn was breaking as they left London. The limousine slipped through the countryside, blue morning light illuminating the surrounding fields and meadows with every passing mile, larger subdivisions and tiny towns slowly waking up, turning on their yellow lights and beginning their morning routines of newspaper and milk and bread deliveries, rousing the children to wake and drinking scalding hot teas. There was little traffic in either direction, and with a start, Sherlock realized it was Sunday, and it hadn't even been twenty-four hours since he'd purchased the balloons for Emily's birthday. 

Emily was on John's lap. Completely unsafe, considering the speed at which the limousine was traveling, but no one seemed to question this, least of all Sherlock himself. Emily was asleep, tucked half into John's coat, and she held in one hand a corner of the orange shock blanket. She'd refused to part with it, and even when Mycroft had met them on the other side of the hyperbaric chamber, she hadn't traded for her beloved elephant. Sherlock hoped the preference was temporary. 

Every so often, Emily would wake, and crawl from John's lap to his, sitting on the far end of the seat. She would nestle into his coat, press her nose up against his shirt, and wrap her arms snugly under his. There she would sigh, and fall back to sleep, and it was those moments that made the oppressive silence in the car nearly bearable. 

John looked out the window, watched the sun rise, watched life in the towns and village spring up, and when Emily returned to his lap, he turned away from all of it, wrapped his arms around her, and rested his cheek against her hair. 

It was Sherlock's turn to look out the window, but he never did, preferring instead to watch John and Emily together. 

Aurora Holmes waited for them at the door, when they finally reached the estate. Sherlock wondered if his mother had even been to bed, and when he was finally close enough to see her face, concluded that she had not. Dark circles under the eyes which were not quite concealed by the makeup; hair showing some signs of having laid on a pillow for a brief half-hour, in hopes of a quick nap which had not gone terribly well, as there were no creases on her skin. A slight trembling of the hands, showing exhaustion and worry and...age. When Aurora took his hand to give it a tight squeeze of affection, Sherlock realized that his mother was old, and wondered how he hadn't noticed before. 

"Oh, dear, is she asleep?" asked Aurora, as John shifted out of the car. "Let me—" 

Aurora took the sleeping toddler, and settled her head against her shoulder. 

"Mother—" 

"I can carry her," said Aurora softly, still managing to sound authoritative. "I'm not quite as old as I look, and I'll thank you to stop deducing my medical condition, Sherlock." 

"I wasn't—" 

"John," said Aurora, ignoring her son, "there's breakfast laid out, unless you'd rather sleep. Or we can send something to your rooms. It's entirely up to you." 

"Rooms," said Sherlock, and was ignored. 

"Not terribly hungry, but thank you, Aurora," said John, and peeled back the sleeve that covered the suppression patch. Aurora's eyes widened slightly. 

"Oh, dear. On top of everything else...I'll have something sent up in a bit anyway." 

"I just want to sleep," said John. 

"Of course, whatever you want," said Aurora, but Sherlock could tell his mother didn't quite believe John. "I'll take Emily to her room and sit with her until she wakes. There are kittens in the garden shed, just born two weeks ago, I suspect we'll spend a good deal of time playing with them, and the rest in the stream on the corner of the property. And perhaps a bath. Sherlock, do remember to lock your door - no one wants to walk in on you today." 

"Mother. We're going to be sleeping." 

"If that's what you call it," said Aurora, and leaned over to kiss John's cheek. "A shower first, I think. John, I—" 

Aurora lost the thread of conversation, and John leaned over to kiss her cheek as well. "I know." 

Aurora nodded, and carried Emily inside the house. John pushed his hands into the pockets of his coat and looked at Sherlock. 

"John," said Sherlock. "I'm sorry that my brother foisted this on us—" 

"I'm not," said John evenly. "I think this is what Emily needs, a little bit of pampering from her grandmother. I think we could do with some of it ourselves." 

Sherlock nodded. "We don't have to stay." 

"I don't think we're going to have a choice," said John dryly, and scratched at the patch, half idly, half to prove his point. "I suppose this was going to happen eventually." 

"Is the patch helping?" asked Sherlock, curiosity overwhelming him. 

"A bit. It's not really stopping anything, it's just...letting me function around it." John laughed wryly. "I think I prefer the pills, frankly. This is almost more uncomfortable." 

Sherlock nodded. "Do you – want—?" 

"Shower, and sleep," John said, firmly. "I really mean it." 

"I know," said Sherlock, and swallowed. "Where should I—?" 

John closed his eyes and exhaled. He turned and went into the house, and Sherlock followed. Aurora had already disappeared, and John climbed the stairs, a bit slowly. Sherlock followed, and John walked unerringly to Sherlock's childhood rooms, on the far end of the upstairs wing. There was a small suite of them, overlooking the front gardens, three strung together - bedroom, tiny sitting room, bath. John dropped his coat the moment he stepped through the doors, and went straight into the bath, depositing clothing along the way, too weary to think hard about being provocative. 

Sherlock closed the doors to the suite and locked them. He heard John start the shower, and instead of joining him immediately, took his time in removing his own clothing, though he wasn't any neater than John in where the articles ended up. When he was at last naked, he went into the steam-filled bath. 

John was in the shower, leaning into the spray, head forward so that the spray hit the back of his neck. Sherlock tapped on the glass doors, and without opening his eyes, John reached over and shoved the door open, just enough. Sherlock opened it the rest of the way and stepped through. 

"You smell like smoke and oxygen," said John, and Sherlock pressed against John's back and wrapped his arms around him. The patch was still on John's arm. 

"So do you." 

John pushed back and turned to reach for the soap and the flannel. He rubbed them together under the spray and began to lather Sherlock's chest. 

"John. If there had been another way for me to—" 

"Sherlock," said John. "Do me a favor. Just...don't try to explain yourself. I don't want to hear it, because the patch is going to come off, and when it does, I really don't want to hate you any more than I do right now, because I'm going to need you too much." 

Sherlock pressed his lips together. "Do you hate me?" 

John sighed, and moved on to Sherlock's arms. "I don't know. I can't tell if I really do hate you or if I just _want_ to hate you. But I will, if you keep talking." 

John turned Sherlock around, and began to work on his back. Sherlock reached for the shampoo and started to wash his hair, working the lather through the curls. By the time he was done, John had moved him into the spray to rinse off the soap, and Sherlock ran his hands over his head to sluice the excess water away. He took the flannel from John and reached for the soap again. 

John didn't say anything, as Sherlock worked the flannel over his skin. He shampooed his own hair, and kept his face turned from Sherlock, eyes closed as Sherlock ran the flannel up and down his legs, across his cock and around his arse. Sherlock washed John's chest and back, lifted John's arms to reach his armpits, and then worked the flannel down his arms, leaving the forearm with the patch for last. 

"Go on," said John, quietly, eyes still closed. "I know you want to pull it off." 

“I didn’t want it to be this way,” said Sherlock, his fingers resting on the edge of the patch. “I knew you’d be angry about the deception in my death. And you forgave me so easily—” 

John laughed. “I wouldn’t call it _easy_.” 

“No. But it felt that way to me. I wanted to tell you that I knew, that I thought about you both every day. I’m not going to tell you that if it hadn’t been for Emily I would have come home sooner, because I don’t know if that’s true. But I knew that there was no possible way I could come home unless I was absolutely sure it was safe to do so, because I could not risk Emily’s life in the same way I might have risked yours. Emily didn’t choose me; she didn’t choose the sort of life that accompanies me. You did.” 

John was quiet, but Sherlock could see the muscles under his skin flex with tension. 

“I lied when I told the paramedic that my mental facilities were operational. They weren’t. If they had been, I would never have taken advantage of your estrus the way I did.” 

“You didn’t,” said John, shaking his head. “Christ, Sherlock. You think I couldn’t have stopped you?” 

“I know you could have stopped me. But I couldn’t stop myself.” 

John sighed. “You’re not meant to stop yourself. It’s…” John’s face twisted. “It’s our _biology_.” 

“I wanted you to be safe,” said Sherlock. “Everything I’ve ever done – is because I wanted you to be _safe_. I jumped from St Bart’s to keep you alive, and I destroyed nearly every thread of Moriarty’s network to keep you and Emily safe, even when I could feel the pull telling me to come back home. I’ve spent four years ignoring my biology, and five minutes breathing in carbon monoxide was all it took to break down my resolve.” 

“It was never a question of hurting me,” said John quietly. “Not in that way.” 

“I’m no better than any other alpha who takes advantage of a convenient omega,” said Sherlock, and thought of the drugged and pheromone-ridden omegas from the day before, in a warehouse waiting for someone to present as an alpha. It could have been a thousand years before, instead of barely 12 hours. 

“I wouldn’t have said I was convenient.” 

Sherlock’s hand stilled on John’s arm. “The bond…” 

John sighed. “Yeah.” 

“You…you said it was gone.” 

“Not gone. I couldn’t feel it. I thought it was gone, but it was really just because of the pregnancy. Doesn’t matter. It’s back now.” 

"Do you want me to pull off the patch?" asked Sherlock, and John didn't answer. So Sherlock moved John under the spray, and rinsed the soap and shampoo away, and when John was clean, Sherlock saw him nod. 

Sherlock ripped off the patch, and John's breath caught, more from the shock of it pulling against his skin than the flood of pheromones and sensations returning. Those would take a few minutes to work through his bloodstream. Sherlock leaned across him and turned off the spray. 

They dried each other off, slowly, the towels soft against their skin, but John's breath caught with every touch, and Sherlock's eyes began to glaze over a little more. They moved from the shower to the bedroom, hands still on each other, unable to let go just yet, and Sherlock pressed his lips to John's forehead and closed his eyes. 

It was pleasant, like this, knowing a heat was coming, feeling the simmer under the skin, but still in some kind of control. Sherlock realized that he'd missed it, the four years he'd been without. He'd forgotten. He'd _had_ to forget. It wasn't that he had deleted the memory of the two heats he'd shared with John (and how were there only two, there ought to have been a dozen; sometimes he could believe there were a dozen, that he'd known John his entire life), but he'd locked them away in a dark corner of his mind palace, and hidden the key, and refused to bring them out again. 

Better, maybe. To not remember, but not to forget. Because if this really was the last heat - if at the end of the week, John turned to him and said he never wanted to see him again, that they should break the bond, that knowing about Emily was one lie too many - well, at least he'd have these three heats to hold him steady. And Emily to remind him that it hadn't been in vain. 

Sherlock pressed his lips to John's hair, gripping his arms, and rode the pause before John turned his head to kiss along his chest. He could feel John's limbs begin to shake, just a little, the smallest sign that the suppressant was beginning to wear off, and when John's knees hit the bed, he fell backwards onto it and didn't let go of Sherlock. Sherlock followed him, lips trailing from John's head and neck and down to his stomach, where Sherlock left another trail of kisses, gentle ones that matched John's breath, in and out. John's cock was already half-hard; his thighs were damp and glistening. When Sherlock brushed his cheek against John's cock, he heard John's breath catch, a soft and quick moan, and John's hand fell lightly on his head. 

It was a slow burn now; John's limbs twitched, he shifted on the bed as though trying to reach an itch. There was a faint yellow haze at the edge of Sherlock's vision, the very beginnings of a frenzy. Sherlock covered John's cock with his mouth, heard John let out a gasp, and sucked. 

Flashes of orange coupled with the yellow; John's hips bucked and he let out a cry that might have been a word, but Sherlock was hit with a wave of omega pheromones, as if he'd sucked the suppressants clear out of John. A second long pull, and there were two hands on his head, pulling him up, as John sat up in the bed, and Sherlock let John's cock pop out of his mouth, and landed to kiss John's lips instead. 

John didn't shake anymore; his kiss was strong and sure and Sherlock kept himself braced with his arms, letting John control the kiss. The alpha wanted to control him; but John as omega had never once wanted to be controlled. John was his own master, and Sherlock let him take the lead. There'd be time to play the alpha later, no matter what occurred after it was over. 

_Over_. Sherlock shoved that word into the back, kicked it once or twice for good measure, and kissed John hard. 

"Fuck me," said John into Sherlock's mouth. 

"You're not—" 

"Don't care, I want you in me when it hits." 

Sherlock pushed against John, and he fell back against the mattress. It was an easy thing, to move between John's legs and slide into him; he was just as wet as if he'd been at the height of the heat, and not only feeling it come to fruition now. 

"It's—" 

"You know I've been in heat for hours, I just haven’t been able to feel it with the patch," said John into Sherlock's neck. 

"You can feel it now." 

"So can you," said John, and nipped Sherlock's shoulder lightly. " _Move_ , damn you." 

Sherlock moved, and with every gentle thrust, he felt the frenzy a little more, and heard John let out a louder gasp as his blood quickened to the heat. The orange along the edges of his vision crowded in, until it was glowing red at the edges, and Sherlock couldn't control his hips any longer, they had a life of their own. John's legs locked around Sherlock, his kisses became increasingly possessive, more nips and scrapes of the teeth than the gentle pressing of lips to skin. Sherlock opened his mouth again on the bit of skin where he'd bonded John, pressed his teeth lightly against the salty-sweet taste of John's skin, but didn't bite down. John's body was shaking so violently, half from the heat and half from the force of Sherlock's thrusts, that Sherlock didn't have to bite, to dig his teeth there. 

Red, everything glowed red at the edges. The fire licked at the walls and the smoke filled the room and Sherlock almost stopped breathing. John thumped him on the shoulder. 

"We're fine, we're safe," he gasped out, his throat hoarse not from smoke inhalation but from desire. "Don't stop." 

"Three," groaned Sherlock, as he felt himself start to grow, and thrust harder. "Two...one." 

He'd knotted. John groaned and ground against him, throwing his head back, and Sherlock, unable to move, lodged tightly inside his mate, pushed his teeth against his skin, not breaking it, quite, just to remember. _Mine_. 

For now. 

Sherlock was empty. His mind didn't want to process, his heart felt deflated and sore. Even his cock and balls were emptying inside of John, who was largely still as he lay beneath him, only his labored breathing indication that he was still alive. 

And then John moved, turned his face to Sherlock's, and his arms wrapped around him, and John kissed him, quietly, lovingly, carefully. As if John still might have loved him, despite everything. As if the heat wasn't just a charade, and the last five months hadn't been a lie, and the two and a half years before it hadn't been the worst of betrayals. Sherlock let John kiss him, eyes closed, and pretended. He didn't know about pretending - hadn't done it in years, and it was rusty and flimsy and felt utterly ridiculous, but it was still easier to pretend that John still loved him, than the reality that this kiss meant goodbye. 

The kiss broke; Sherlock kept his eyes closed and rested their foreheads together. 

“What now?” 

John was quiet. “I don’t know.” 

“She surely knows by now that we’ve both survived.” 

John shifted beneath him; Sherlock opened his eyes and found John looking up at him stoically. 

“Then we’re in danger again,” said John quietly. “She meant to kill us.” 

“To get at me,” said Sherlock grimly. 

“I think she’d like you dead, too. She just means to play with you first.” 

“I have to kill her,” said Sherlock. 

“No,” said John. 

“John—” 

“ _No_ , Sherlock. You can’t…” John closed his eyes. “I don’t want _you_ to kill anyone else for us.” 

“John…” 

“Let Mycroft handle it.” 

“It has to be me.” 

John’s eyes sprang open. “ _Why_? Why are you so convinced that it has to be you, Sherlock? You lost two and a half years of your daughter’s life because you were too stubborn to let anyone _help_ , and now you’re proposing to do it again?” 

Sherlock didn’t even have to think about it. “Yes,” he said simply, and John covered his face with his arm. 

“Christ,” he muttered. “I can’t believe…all of this, and now you’re going. _Again_.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. It would have been the perfect moment to pull away, to wrap himself in the blankets and feel the cold air on his skin, but the knot was still wedged tight within John. John, who was beneath him, pain and sorrow and disappointment wrapped up around them both. 

Easier to think straight, when Sherlock didn’t have to deal with all the _emotion_. 

“I don’t want you to go,” said John quietly. “Not now. You can’t….you can’t just drop a bombshell on me like this, and then go. Not if there’s any hope for us.” 

Sherlock felt the twinge in his cock; the knot was deflating. “Is there?” 

John didn’t answer. 

"Will you go back to Baker Street?" asked Sherlock, and John shuddered just slightly. 

"No," said John. “If you’re going, I can't...I can't live there without you again. Emily and I will stay here. I can't go back to London yet." 

Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight. "The clinic." 

"I've got some time now, I can take a holiday. I think we need one." 

"How long?" 

"I don't know." 

"What will you tell Emily?" 

"I don't know." 

"Can I see you?" 

"Just..." John shifted beneath him, and Sherlock rolled off of him, and turned his back to him. He clutched at the rumpled sheets, and felt the cold air on his skin. 

"You said you knew the minute before you jumped, about Emily," John said. "What did you think? Were you….” John swallowed, and his hands tightened on the sheets. “Were you happy?” 

Sherlock didn’t even need to think about it. "I was scared. I didn't want to know. There was no advantage in knowing; events were in motion far beyond my control. I couldn’t have stopped them even if I’d wanted to." 

“And you didn’t want to.” John’s voice was flat. 

“No,” said Sherlock. “Not then. Not until later.” 

It was as close to regret as he thought he might ever come. And John – John would understand that. John would hear what was unsaid, and it would help. Wouldn’t he? 

Silence, behind him. 

The room shimmered, as if still caught in a heatwave. Sherlock's vision was still tinged red and orange at the edges; the pheromones were still thick in the air. His cock twitched, and it was all Sherlock could do to keep from rolling back over, covering John, claiming him and marking him and making him scream and shout, riding out the rest of the heat and not having this infernally impossible conversation that marked the end of everything. 

"Right," said John, finally, and his voice was flat. "Okay. Fine." 

John's hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock felt himself pulled back. John climbed on top of him, and his face was grim and determined. "Fuck me," he said. "Exactly how you need to do it. You're the alpha. _Prove it_." 

Sherlock took a breath, and did. 

* 

It was a quiet heat, without laughter and without tears. Food was left on trays outside the door; they showered and shaved and slept and fucked, and didn’t speak very much about anything at all. On the fifth day, when Sherlock woke from his doze, vision clear, he closed his eyes again and waited for John to wake up. 

A phone call; there had been a phone call, in the midst of the smoke and the ashes, and something in that call had been compelling enough to pull Mrs Moriarty away from ensuring that her plan went exactly as intended. 

The phone call was key. The phone call was everything. The phone call was where to start looking, and while John breathed evenly at his side, Sherlock began to plan. 

John woke, five or ten minutes later. He stretched his limbs, and swung his feet off the bed, and remained sitting for a long time. After a while, John stood, and went into the ensuite, and Sherlock heard the shower. 

Any other time, he might have followed him. But his vision was clear now; the frenzy was over, and Sherlock waited for John to finish. 

He did, and came back into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. Sherlock struggled to sit up, and examined John’s skin from the bed. 

“The bruising has abated,” he said. 

“Yeah,” said John, and turned his back to Sherlock to dig in the bureau for clothing. “Breathing’s easier. My throat’s still rough, though.” 

Sherlock rested against the headboard. “When do you want me to go?” 

John stopped and leaned against the bureau. “Christ,” he muttered, softly. “You’re really going to go after her, aren’t you?” 

“You aren’t safe as long as she’s alive.” 

John exhaled sharply. “Since when do I need you to keep me safe?” 

Sherlock didn’t answer; his gritted his teeth together and kept his face passive and stoic. Finally, John began to move again, rustling through the clothes in the bureau. 

“Emily needs you here, with her.” 

“Emily needs _both_ of us,” snapped John, and slammed the drawer. He stepped into his boxers, letting the towel drop at his feet. 

“Emily has never needed me.” 

“Fine,” said John shortly. “Whatever you want. You’re the alpha. Go.” 

“Lestrade will want to debrief both of us.” 

“I’ll go into London with you and take the train back.” 

“Mycroft can provide a car, I’m sure.” 

“I like the train.” 

“The train isn’t the least bit convenient.” 

“Sherlock.” John’s voice was harsh. “I’ll take the train.” 

Sherlock breathed once. “As you wish.” 

John nodded, and continued dressing. Vest, shirt, trousers, socks, jumper. Once he was done, he turned and looked at Sherlock, hands in his pockets. 

“Tomorrow,” he said quietly. “We’ll go tomorrow. Today should be Emily’s.” 

Sherlock nodded. “Of course.” 

“Don’t tell her,” said John, after a moment. “That you’re not coming back with me tomorrow. I’ll think of something when I come back on the train alone.” 

Sherlock swallowed. “If that’s what you think is best.” 

“I do.” 

Sherlock nodded, and John took a breath, and looked as if he might say something else. Instead, he turned to leave the room. 

“John. Do you—?” Sherlock spoke before he even thought, and his words echoed in the room. John paused by the door. “Do you hate me?” 

John didn’t move. “Sometimes,” said John finally. “But it’s all wrapped up in me loving you, and I don’t think I can tell the difference between the two anymore.” 

John left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

Sherlock went to shower and dress, and tried not to think too hard about tomorrow. 

* 

“Emily.” 

Five days of pampering and spoiling by her grandmother had not made Emily any less skittish when John and Sherlock had appeared at the breakfast table. If nothing else, Sherlock thought she looked more skittish than she had just after the fire, when she refused to leave either of them, and once again Sherlock cursed the biology that had taken them both away from her, when clearly she wanted nothing more than for either of them to remain squarely by her side. Even now, she tracked John’s movements, as he chased down a kitten that had managed to escape Emily’s lap. The other two were still folded in the towel that was protecting the ridiculous pink dress her grandmother had provided. (Silk, or satin, or some kind of fabric that was not going to wash very well, Sherlock was very certain of that. John had shrugged and said it was on Aurora’s shoulders, which was a very un-John thing to say. Then again, Sherlock suspected that Aurora and John had long since come to an understanding about Emily, and did not want to interfere.) 

“Emily,” said Sherlock again, “before the fire. What do you remember?” 

Emily went still, and leaned against his arm. “I woke up, and Jane was there. And a dollhouse. And there was an old lady, not Gran or Grandmother. She said you’d come for me, when you and Daddy were done. And you did.” 

“We did,” confirmed Sherlock. “What else did she say?” 

“She said…” Emily frowned, and wrinkled her nose. “She wanted to show me pictures.” 

“Pictures?” 

“Two little boys in a garden. There were roses. But not like Grandmother’s roses. Her roses were blue. They were pretty.” 

Sherlock frowned, and glanced out the window at his mother’s greenhouse, just visible through the snow and the trees. 

“Blue roses,” he murmured. “Emily – two little boys?” 

“Mm-hmm,” said Emily, and pressed her face into one of the kittens. “Can I keep him? I like him best.” 

“Ask your Daddy when he comes back,” said Sherlock. “Emily, can I tell you a secret?” 

Emily didn’t take her eyes off John, but she leaned into Sherlock’s arm. “A secret?” 

“Something very special. You mustn’t tell anyone else. Not even Daddy, not even if he asks.” 

“Why? Is it magic?” 

“No, and it isn’t dangerous, and it isn’t anything that you should be in trouble for knowing. But it’s something special, for just you and me. Can I tell you?” 

Emily wiggled, holding a kitten in her hands, and looked up at him, eyes bright and blue. “Just you and me?” 

“Mm-hhm.” 

“Okay.” 

Sherlock leaned close to her ear. “I’m going to find you a blue rose. Would you like that?” 

Emily pulled away, her eyes wide with something like fear. “Do you have to go away to find it?” 

“I do.” 

Emily took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to go away.” 

“You must be very brave.” 

“I’m brave.” 

“I know.” 

“You’ll come back?” 

“Of course. With a rose, just for you. But you mustn’t tell Daddy that’s what I’m doing.” 

Emily held the orange kitten to her chest. “I can be brave with a kitten.” 

Sherlock smiled, and out of the corner of his eyes, saw John returning, a small cat cradled in his hands. 

“John,” he called, in a tone he hoped brokered no argument. “Emily would like a kitten. I think its name is Gladstone.” 

John said nothing until he had sat down opposite them, scrutinizing them both. 

“Gladstone is a very good name for a cat,” he said finally, and Emily smiled, the first real smile she’d had in days.


	10. Epilogue

_One: John_

Anna Lestrade stopped by 221B to see Emily and John at least once a week, and called every few days, more so when Emily was very small, and only slightly less frequently as she approached her second birthday. John didn’t mind the intrusions at first, but was a little perplexed with Anna’s enthusiasm. After a few weeks, he stopped thinking of the visits as intrusions at all. 

It wasn’t long before John started looking forward to the visits. Anna was bright and cheerful, friendly and helpful, and clearly loved Emily, who loved her in return. John watched them interact, taking mental notes of how Anna sang to Emily, played with her, stretched her little arms up and around. He didn’t think of himself as a natural parent – but he always felt much improved after Anna left. 

“You’re so good with her, John,” said Anna one day. 

“You were good with her first,” said John honestly, and Anna blushed, and laughed. 

Anna was always laughing. John didn’t think he’d ever seen her without the smile on her face. And when they were together, Emily laughed too, continuously, and hearing their laughter blend, John almost felt content. 

And then came a week when Anna didn't stop by. John hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on the visits until then, and he rang as soon as Emily was asleep for the night, when he could talk without worrying that she would find a way to tumble down the stairs. 

"I'm so sorry, John," said Anna, and he could hear the weariness in her voice even through the telephone line. John might have worried, but she still managed to sound cheerful, and so he put the worries away. "I meant to ring and let you know. Is tomorrow all right? I'd like to talk to you." 

"Of course," said John, and the next morning, he dressed Emily warmly and set her in the pushchair and walked the bit further to Marks and Spencer's Food Hall, and picked up the chocolate shortbreads he knew Anna liked best. It was still early, and the January weather was crisp and cold, and the sky was bright blue. There wasn't a hint of snow anywhere, which made pushing Emily that much easier, at least, and the wide pavements were empty of people at the early hour. 

John realized with a start, as he listened to Emily chatter at a squirrel, that he was actually, for the first time in years, _happy_. Emily would be two in another month, and he'd made it through nearly three years without Sherlock, and he was all right, he was getting by. He was more than getting by. It was John and Emily, and not against the world but part of it, which was infinitely better. 

He whistled as he made the tea and set the table and put the chocolate shortbreads on a plate, and Emily turned somersaults across the floor and played with her dolls and trucks and climbed over the furniture. John scooped her up and flew her through the air, and spun her in circles while she shouted out in laughter. 

"One - two - three!" he yelled, and Emily flew through the air and landed on his bed, bouncing onto her knees. She jumped up and ran to him. 

"Again!" she shouted, and he did it over and over, until the bell rang. 

One look at Anna's stricken face, and the laughter died in his throat. 

"Oh, Anna." 

It was cancer, and it was moving fast. The tests had only confirmed what Anna had known already. "I'm not a fool, even if I am foolish sometimes." 

"You're not foolish, Anna." 

"I ignored the signs for months, how's that not foolish?" 

"Foolish and fear aren't the same thing." 

"Fear _is_ foolish." 

"No." And then, because he was hurting too much not to know: “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

But Anna shook her head, and couldn’t answer. Instead, she looked over at Emily, still rolling on the floor, and John thought he might have known why Anna hadn’t been able to say the words before. 

Greg knew, of course; Greg had known since the beginning. He'd put in for time off from the Yard the day before, as soon as Anna had the original consultation with the oncologist. "I asked him to let me tell you." 

"When do you start treatments?" 

Anna took a breath. "I'm not." 

John shook his head. "No. Anna—" 

"The doctors can't promise me anything more than two or three months, John. Two extra months where I'm skin and bones and can't even lift my head, can't eat or drink and need a tube to pee. And that’s where I’ll end up anyway. I can't do that to Greg. " 

"You aren't allowed to give up," said John, angrily. “There’s new treatments all the time, those two extra months you scoff at might be just enough to save you – and that’s two more months that Greg and Emily will have you—” 

Anna reached over and put her hand on his. 

"John. I'm not giving up. I'm just dying. That's all." 

John left the table and went to stand by the window. He looked out onto Baker Street, and saw Mrs Hudson on the other side of the road, making her way home from the shops. 

Taptaptaptap, of Emily's feet across the floor. "Awntanna," said Emily at the kitchen table. "Biscuit?" 

"Of course," said Anna, and there was a rustle and soft sigh from Emily. John could see their reflection in the glass, a ghostly image against the buildings across the street. Emily on Anna's lap, a chocolate shortbread in her hands as she nibbled contentedly. 

Anna buried her nose in Emily's hair, and John saw the pain in the way she closed her eyes, and held the girl tightly in her arms. Anna's shoulders shuddered, and her mouth became small, tight. John imagined it hurt to let the girl sit on her lap, but hurt worse to tell her to get down. He closed his eyes, not wanting to watch them together anymore. 

A time in which he was unable to hold Emily; the prospect of never seeing her grow up: John couldn't think of anything worse in the world. 

He opened his eyes, and in the glass, saw Anna whisper to Emily. He couldn't hear the words, but he knew what she said, because he said it to his daughter every day. 

_I love you so, so much._

He let Anna put Emily down for her nap. It took a long time. 

"About Greg," said Anna, just before she left. She'd waited until her eyes weren't so puffy and red anymore, but she didn't want to wait for Emily to wake from her nap. 

"If he needs to talk—" 

Anna nodded. "Please, John. Help him. He's - I'm so worried about him. You'll watch out for him, won't you? When I’m gone." 

“There’s plenty of time for that,” said John, refusing to look at her. 

“John,” said Anna gently. “You know there never is.” 

John closed his eyes. "I... It gets easier. After a while." 

Anna threw her arms around John. "Please take care of him for me. I know I can trust you." 

Anna was thinner than John remembered. It wasn't fair; how could she have become so small in only a few weeks? 

"I'll watch out for him," John said, and thought about how just that morning, life had been wonderful. "I promise." 

 

 

 

_Two: Nola Moriarty_

Nola Moriarty tended roses. She had come by the hobby honestly, as she had every other facet of her life. Of course, Nola had her own definition of “honestly.” 

“Be true to yourself,” Nola had told her son, and he was. It was what her father had told her, when she was small, and so Nola had been diligent in school, because she enjoyed it. She had eschewed the secondaries, despite being accepted to the best schools after presentation, because she disliked the company of other children. In college, she paid little attention to the prescribed courses for graduation, and instead took lessons in horticulture, literature, mathematics, biology, philosophy, and psychology. 

For six lovely years, Nola studied everything and nothing at all, and when at last the professors and her father realized that she was never going to put in for graduation in any sort of discipline, she was given a tour of the Continent and told to find either a purpose or a mate, both if possible, and in whichever order she preferred. 

It was 1968. Nola found neither. Instead, she found roses. 

Nola had experience with roses, of course; one did not study horticulture without covering the basics, and roses, for all their expense, were fairly basic. But Nola had been mistaken if she had thought them ordinary; they were far from it, at least the way Mario explained them. In the heat of Spain, the sea glistening blue and green in shimmering stripes, surrounding by the scent of roses and red clay, Nola fell in love. 

Not with Mario, of course. With Mario’s roses. 

Mario was not in love with her, either, and this simplified matters, because Mario was necessary for the roses, and had he loved Nola, it would have all become very complicated. Nola doubted that Mario could love anyone, but as Nola believed the same to be true of herself, this did not concern her very much. She gave up on the Continental tour, and after a while, her father gave up on her, which also suited Nola very well. While the rest of her generation turned on and tuned out, Nola closed herself into the gardens overlooking the Mediterranean and learned how to cultivate the roses, to mix and blend the seeds and the stamen, to pollinate and cross-pollinate. Above all, she learned patience, because it took years for a seed to bloom into a flower, to learn if the careful nudging would produce the finest and desired result. 

It was, Nola thought, more rewarding than children, and certainly faster. Children took twenty years to disappoint. Roses took less than a quarter of that, and there was always ample time in which to start again. 

Nola’s father assumed it was Mario that held Nola in Spain. He assumed that Nola was in love with the man, that they were sleeping together and that eventually she would leave him or he would grow tired of her. Nola let him think it, because she did not care what her father thought of her anymore. His opinion had long since ceased to matter, and had her father cared enough to visit her (which he never did), he would have discovered the truth quick enough. 

No one could love Mario. He was too acidic, too biting. But Nola learned to ignore the barbs and veiled insults he threw in her direction. And gradually, he began to show her the other things he grew, far more interesting, and the dangerous thing he kept in notebooks in the back of the greenhouse, which had nothing to do with roses at all. 

“Roses are like people,” said Mario, when they had first met, and Nola thought she knew what he meant. Each rose, individual though part of a family, some a bit more bedraggled and plain, some glorious and perfect. Each with a story and a name. 

“Roses are like people,” said Mario as he pulled the petals off a half-bloomed rose, layer by layer, and Nola thought she knew what he meant. Each rose, with secrets and stories they never told and kept within themselves, backgrounds and thoughts only glimpsed in passing. The only way to know them completely was to strip them bare. 

“Roses are like people,” said Mario, as he showed her the secret notebooks, kept under lock and key, and Nola understood the whole of it as she read, and later when she stripped her own creations bare, saw the secret insides within the petals, the male and female together. She used her knife to separate the two, carefully laying them one to each side, and began the slow operation. 

After Mario died, and the rose garden overlooking the sea no longer belonged to her, the doctor between her legs said, “It’s a boy,” and she nodded thoughtfully, and requested the x-rays. 

“He’s an omega,” they told her, and she smiled, thought of the dual nature of roses, and named him James. 

 

 

 

_Three: Emily_

Daddy returned on the evening train. Emily thought this was magical, far better than coming in a car, because it meant that she and Grandmother had to go to the station to pick him up, and Mr Williams worked at the station, and he would slip lemon-flavored sweets into Emily's pocket when Grandmother wasn't looking. Grandmother wouldn't let Emily bring Gladstone the kitten with her, because he might crawl down to the tracks and be smashed flat by an engine. That was all right; Emily saved a sweet for him, and besides, Mr Williams had a dog named Thomas, because he was blue and cheeky and lived in a train station. (Emily didn't think he was blue; she thought he was just an odd sort of grey, but adults were funny about colors sometimes.) Emily wasn't sure she liked Thomas, because Thomas seemed to think Emily's face was delicious and wanted to lick it all the time. 

The train was only a few minutes late, but Grandmother was miffed about it anyway. "Trains used to be punctual," she told Mr Williams, and Mr Williams agreed and they talked about how everything in the country was Growing Worse and no one had any Pride left in what they did and Emily Stop Teasing The Dog. 

Emily was not teasing the dog. Emily was trying to hide from the dog, and the dog kept finding her. 

When the train finally pulled into the station, Emily stood on the bench to see Daddy better, and Grandmother told her to get back down before she cracked her head open. 

"That's not far enough to crack my head open, Grandmother," said Emily. 

"Emily, _get. Down_." 

Emily sat on the bench, and thought about sulking, but then Daddy climbed off the train, and Emily gave up sulking and ran to him. 

He caught her and swung her up, and she wrapped her arms around him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. He smelled like cologne and the paper-dust smell of Scotland Yard, and he held her very tightly, she almost couldn't breathe. 

"Where is Papa?" asked Emily, because she forgot. 

Daddy's eyes turned sad for a moment. "He stayed behind in London. He...he needs to be away for a little while." 

And then Emily remembered, and thought Daddy's expression was very odd, a bit like he was preparing for an argument or a tantrum, which was very silly, because why would she have thrown a tantrum or argued with Daddy, when Papa was very busy looking for blue roses? 

"He'll come back," said Emily, because it was a fact, and Daddy looked as if he was worried about it. Maybe that was why he expected the argument. She patted Daddy’s cheek to console him, and scrambled down from his arms. 

“She has so much faith in him,” said Grandmother after tea, when Emily was supposed to be outside in the sunshine and fresh air. Emily crouched beneath the window, taking care to keep the skirt of her dress out of the mud. 

“Yes,” said Daddy, and his voice sounded funny and thick. “Funny, isn’t it?” 

“Not in the slightest,” said Grandmother. “He always did keep his promises.” 

It wasn't until later, just before bed, that Emily saw Daddy look out the window, a terrible sad look on his face. For a moment, Emily had the horrible thought that perhaps Papa wasn't looking for blue roses at all, perhaps he was dead again, and the thought was so awful that she wanted to cry, because why would Daddy look so sad, if Papa was only looking for a lovely present for them? 

And then Daddy turned, and saw her, and Emily saw him tuck the sadness away behind a smile, and even if the smile didn't quite reach his eyes, Emily knew that Daddy couldn't possibly smile so nicely if Papa was dead again. When Daddy picked her up, she patted his cheek. 

"Bedtime, Emily," said Daddy. 

"Tell me a story," said Emily. 

"What about?" 

It had only been a day; unreasonable to think that Papa would be there in the morning when she woke up. He would have to travel a long way, Emily decided, else Daddy wouldn’t be so sad that he was gone. A week, then. She would give Papa a week, and that’s when she’d expect him to walk up the path to the house, a blue rose held out in his hand. 

“Emily,” prodded Daddy. “Your story?” 

Emily thought. "Tell me a story about roses."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so sorry that it took me an extra week to post the epilogue to this story. I don’t usually let my personal life interfere with posting (or vice versa, for that matter), but last week, it couldn’t be helped. (If you’re really curious, you can read either my LJ or my [Tumblr](http://azriona.tumblr.com/post/54667769318/i-hate-it-when-rl-and-world-events-collide) for more.) Suffice to say that posting a story where John has literally sent Sherlock away (and Sherlock was all too willing to go, despite being desperate to stay), was a little too close to home. 
> 
> But things are looking up, and thus I’m feeling more confident in posting now.
> 
> If you have been reading the angst-fest that is this story, I must thank you. I have to admit the amount of despair that popped up as I was writing took me by surprise – I don’t consider myself an angsty sort of writer, but apparently I am and just didn’t know it! 
> 
> But I have said in the comments to some of you, and I will say it again: I believe in happy endings. I’m a romantic at heart. Heart3 is written and being betaed and edited, and with a bit of luck, should appear sometime this fall. There are also a couple of one-shots that I plan to post, and because I apparently have put you all through hell and back again, I’ve got plans to write a couple of much lighter pieces within this world (one of which is tentatively titled “The Adventures of John and Percy”, and would focus on John’s first year of single fatherhood). You guys definitely deserve something fun after reading this.
> 
> In the meantime, those of you who have lost your hearts and souls, I promise to take very good care of them. Thank you so much for reading, for reviewing, for the kudos on AO3 and the likes on Tumblr. Each one brought a smile to my face in an otherwise stressful time, and I hope to see you all again with Heart3.


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